Time Or Manner
by LadyWoot
Summary: Voldemort uses a time spell to keep The Boy Who Lived from killing him. In his weak state, it backfires. Enter 1991. An amnesiac 10 year old Dark Lord is signed up for Hogwarts, and can't seem to figure out why a certain green eyed hoodlum is their hero.
1. Prologue

_**-Time Or Manner-**_

_Prologue-_

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_

_The bang was like a cannon-blast and the golden flame that erupted between them, at the dead centre of the circle they had been treading, marked the point where the spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort's green jet meet his own spell, saw the Elder Wand fly high, dark against the sunrise, spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of Nagini, spinning through the air towards the master it would not kill, who had come to take full possession of it at last. And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backwards, arms splayed, the slit pupils of his scarlet eyes dilating slowly as the curse burned him. His own curse seared his insides, but did not kill…._

The floor is greasy.

A count of twenty-two people had taken to magical combat within the last few hours. Leathery patterns from the bottom of boots, the powdery, black scuff of sneakers, sticky sweat, a little blood, perhaps remnants of saliva dried into a crusty, white layer contributed to what Tom was observing at this point, on the ground of this pretentious battlefield.

The doors are locked and smoke piles its way down the walls as the scents of magic, smoke and fire drift away from the Great Hall. So many times Tom had been aware of death and its smell. It smelled like silence, cold and raw-like a crushed raw egg, with the yolk seeping its yellow blood out in clots of the same scent. Nothing. Sweat, blood, burnt sneakers-all that; death did not smell like that. The floor smells like that and he feels the grease under his fingers as he tries to keep his grip with reality. The floor had not been pristine beforehand; however, this was more than disgusting.

A pair of sneakers comes into view and a few angry thoughts rise to the surface of Tom's mind and he grits his teeth in the effort at mustering dignity. Tom thinks that it might not have been as wise to mock the boy.

There is a silence of hushed voices as everyone appears to wonder if he is, indeed, dead. As he slowly rolls off his chest onto his back, he stares at the boy. Potter. Harry, who is the only reason beyond his own needs and desires why he was here in this room. He had gone to the ends of the earth for this boy, to kill him, to get rid of the annoying connection between them. And here he lay, disarmed, burned by his own curse, minutes away from death.

The boy steps forward, crouching by him, his bright eyes wide with the wonder of what he has done. He still speaks in that loud, arrogant voice of a victor before his time. "I can see you're dying; you've always been afraid of death, and that was your weakness. Running away from what you can't change is, I think, the stupidest thing anyone can do. The only thing you get now is to die quietly like this."

Disdain is how Tom describes the next emotion that rises foremost to his mind. Is he really going to talk about all this? Now? Tom wavered between asking him or just lying there, breathing in semi-gasps as both the stench of the floor wafted up and his organs curdled inside him.

He knows that if he keeps still, the boy will manage to stop it; to put an end to it all. _Voldemort must never have an end_, he had once told himself on a whim as he made his horcrux. Never. Not in this existence. Not until he could fully comprehend _why_ he was being destroyed by the boy who stood above him right now, heaving with a righteous rage, his wand hand trembling.

It is in that fear that Tom doesn't need to hesitate, he raises himself up a little and he _hears_ the boy start forward. Tom looks at him, and he still doesn't understand. Frustration levitates its way into his bones and Tom grits his teeth before murmuring. "It can be easily concluded now that the reason I may have lost might be for the plain fact that I have not taken the time to understand you...Harry."

Harry appears revolted and confused at once. With his lungs deteriorating within him, Tom's voice is broken and slurred. He is repulsive, of course. With patches of his skin charred black and his insides burning, he is one of the forsaken in hell and even the Saviour cannot look at him with pity.

Tom continues. "We have been two beings on opposite sides of the spectrum, and though we have shared a mind at times, you have not _known_ me, nor I, you. Thus, this has not been a proper battle. For that, I am sorry."

Harry's quiet and confused demeanour gives Tom time to push himself up against a splintered table. He half-leans, half-stands like a frightening doll of white skin, barely held together by glues and threads. His red eyes are like narrow slits of observation, and it is evident that Harry is listening. "You see, Harry, Voldemort always rectifies his mistakes and that is what I intend to do. You want to stop all this? Do you not want to understand _why_ you want to stop any of this?"

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but he stops; his green eyes thoughtful and vacant. Finally, after a moment, he says, "You killed my parents, and the parents of many other people. You separated friends because of the state of their _blood! _And now you would have killed anyone in this room to achieve your ends. I think it's strictly common sense that I should want to stop it all!"

Voldemort looks away. He despises childishness, but he has to move quickly in order to put his new plan in motion. "My ends, you say? I highly doubt you could even begin to comprehend the good I am trying to do this _world_. Let us put that aside, however. I have always been a scholar, Harry- at heart and when I strive for knowledge, I gain it. It is unfortunate that your plans may be sprung awry, but I have quite a bit of research to do before we do this again."

The confusion in Harry's expression was incomparable and Voldemort had only to whisper the words. Words that would sacrifice a lot of achievement, but would in the end, gain so much more. The secret words of time….


	2. Chapter One

_**-**__**Time Or Manner-**_

Chapter 1

_It was like a dream; smoky, dance-like, and full of colours merely reminiscent of reality. A long hallway stood before Tom and he felt cold from lack of reason. Ropes pulled at him and he could not decide his route. Wires twisted into his mind and the cold lack of sense throttled his thoughts to jelly. Within this tempest, Tom could hold only one crumb of knowledge and that was merely the fact that he was Tom…just Tom._.

6AM. Time for the world.

All the children knew better than to sleep even a little past the alarm, and Tom, along with all the others, did not remain in bed. Groggy and confused, he slipped out from under the covers; his heels struck the cold wood and he recoiled for only a moment before he shut his eyes again.

The floor would heat for him.

It was only as he began to button his starched white shirt that he remembered. His heart racing, he moved quickly to his wardrobe and flung open the doors. There they were. The envelope and the little pouch of money.

"It _wasn't_ a dream…" he muttered to himself. Only yesterday, a woman had visited the foster home where he lived. Tom had stood just at the entrance near the stairs, listening as hushed voices said things and exchanged information he couldn't quite hear. He knew they were talking about him because the woman had asked for him when she first arrived.

He knew the day would come when that stupid woman would try and have him transferred. It made him angry that it had come upon him so unexpectedly. He should have been prepared.

The Foster Mother found him outside the living room door. She was a tall, brown-haired woman in her forties, eyes watery with broken promises and wavering dreams. She was the type of woman who told people to call her "Bonny" instead of "Beatrice" (which was, in fact, her name) because it made her sound half more hearty than she really was.

Tom gave her a measured glance as she paused and considered him. "Tom," she said evenly. "Professor McGonagall would like a word with you."

He didn't reply. He felt tempted to let Professor McGonagall sit there. However, he was curious. His initial thought had been that the woman was a social worker, but her title did, indeed, suggest otherwise.

She was a cross-looking woman who stared down at him with a very strange look of calculation. Her clothes were strange and old-fashioned. She dressed like someone out of a book, and the pleats in her skirt were as stern as her mouth when she pursed her lips before she said, "Tom, I have come here to inform your guardian that you are expected to attend a school come September."

He narrowed his eyes. Yes, he _knew_ Bonny would try and be rid of him. Send him off somewhere else. He felt he would gain more satisfaction in leaving by his own means rather than being sent out.

"I won't go anywhere," he informed them. He wanted to turn on his heel, but Tom knew that that made people think you felt ashamed of what you were saying. You had to look them in the eye when you let them know what you thought. He distinguished his statement with a little frown.

McGonagall's lips were now pale as she pressed them together primly. "I don't believe you understand, Tom; your name has been down since birth. Well, your given name, that is. However, you seem to be lacking a surname in our record."

Bonny jumped in. "As I explained, Madam, his mother died in a hospital in Brixton just after giving birth. She only had enough time to let the doctor know she wanted him to be called 'Tom'. That's it. No surname; nothing. If perhaps he had one, we might've found his legal guardian before now. He's pretty much as is."

McGonagall stared at Tom. Tom left his hands at his sides. He worried that folding them or moving them would make him seem nervous. He was not. He just wanted the woman to go away. The woman finally looked away from him and faced Bonny. "I would like to have a quick word with Tom alone, if you do not mind," she stated bluntly.

Bonny gave a half-laugh, half-gasp and stood quickly. "Oh, of course I don't mind. You talk to him…erm…Tom, be polite…."

Once she had departed, McGonagall surveyed Tom quietly. "Have a seat," she said, indicating the chair opposite her own.

Tom's expression had not changed since her last attempt at dialogue. "No," he replied.

McGonagall seemed to be the type of person who understood when someone was challenging her authority and when and where to put a stop to it for just as he said that, she gave a thin smile and replied, "I think you should sit down."

It may have been her tone, or perhaps the fact that she had now pulled from her pocket a thick wooden stick with a pointed end, but Tom found himself suddenly seated and unmoving. His heart jumped in his throat for a quick moment.

"Now, the school in which you are enrolled is a school for people such as you and I-people with special abilities and powers."

A jolt entered Tom's abdomen and his mouth slipped open involuntarily. He rearranged his face quickly. Perhaps this was a trick of Bonny's.

"However, before I begin to explain further," she continued, "your guardian has described to me your penchant for questionable behaviour. There are school reports of behaviour unexpected of a normal young boy. Broken blackboards, teachers taking ill after reprimanding you, classmates refusing to attend school from fear, and your evident lack of friends here in the home. She seems to feel something is quite the matter with you."

Tom jumped up in outrage. All those things were never properly connected with him. How could she prove it? How dare she say that those things were true? "You can ask _anyone_," he replied evenly. "They will tell you its all rumours. And I will not be sent to some asylum for mad people because of someone lying about me! You're from a hospital, aren't you? Tell the truth!" He used this with everyone he knew. When he wanted them to be honest, he would look at them and pretend that he was pulling the truth from their head. It seemed to work most of the time.

McGonagall seemed appalled for a long moment. "I was going to explain that there is not much reason to fear for your abilities. I am here to inform you, Tom, that you are a wizard."

Words like fuzz drifted on and on, but Tom heard no more than that. The word 'wizard' hung limply before him and he dropped into the sofa again, his knees now weak. Of course. _Of course._ He remembered the garden snake in the backyard informing him that Davey Michaels had hidden his birthday money behind the playhouse in the ground. He remembered watching Gracie Turner's Cabbage Patch doll float higher and higher over the playground as she cried and cried. He remembered how Mr. Mendoza wouldn't stop bleeding when he tripped on an unexpected bump in the ground. Tom felt his mouth twitch and he felt like smiling. There was a moment before he realised he was muttering and staring at his hands.

McGonagall was talking about the school again. Tom looked at her with new interest now. "We do not allow misuse of magic in our world and we are always careful not to let non-magical people know about our world. Do you understand that, Tom?"

He nodded. His fingers felt numb.

"And as you will be attending Hogwarts, you will address me and other teachers as 'Professor', is that clear?"

Something occurred to Tom as he looked back at her. He jerked his head at the wooden thing in her hand. "That thing helps you do magic, right?"

She seemed slightly nettled by him, but she replied, "It does, and you will be required to have one before school begins on September first." She handed him an envelope. "That contains your list of school supplies and all the necessary equipment. If you require help in finding your way around, I would be available-"

"No, I don't need anyone," he told her quickly. "Tell me how to get there, and I'll find it."

McGonagall seemed to waver a bit before replying. "If you insist. I'll only explain how to find the way, if you would kindly pay attention."

Tom listened intently as she told him of Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron. Soon after, she explained about the funding for Hogwarts students unable to afford books or clothes of their own. That was where she handed him the small sack of strange money and bid her good-bye. Tom did not see her to the door, but rather sat in place thinking on all that he had heard. It was like a wave of relief to know that all this could be explained. That he was not just the anonymous orphan.

The excitement of this new realisation seemed to coat all his insides with immunity to all other things. His smile remained throughout the remainder of the day and even Bonny would look at him with a frozen expression as he passed, his insides warm with delight.

So then, as he stood there in his room, gazing silently at the pouch of strange money beside the envelope, the feeling of exultation and delight crowded his mind once more. His power had a name now and he was soon to be taught how to use that power. And if, with each spell and each success, he would feel this same ecstasy, he would gladly use it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Diagon Alley was noisy. The bantering of other kids swirled around him and he looked around carefully, feeling strange as men and women in long robes and strange clothing passed by as if there was nothing at all odd about their manner. As he wandered past shops and stalls of peculiar objects and foreign scents, he watched the people…he watched their eyes. He tried to see in any of them the hunger which he felt in that moment so that if he could at least feel kinship with someone here then at least he would know he belonged.

Tom purchased his books first and then he sat outside a small café that served ice creams and he began to read. A history of magic was his first pick and he browsed avidly the words that told him terms he could only just begin to fathom. It wasn't before long that he realised it was getting into the afternoon and he hadn't finished his shopping.

The list was tucked in his pocket when he entered Madam Malkin's and he dropped his books by the door. The room's lamps were lit, and quite a few stools stood high near racks of long bright fabric. A fat woman from the back came bustling over and Tom said quickly, "I need two sets of school robes."

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, smiling at him. Tom was watching her eyes, but he saw nothing magical about them. In her gaze, like many others, there was so much normalcy; there was almost an idiocy to this world that insulted the magic they had.

Tom nodded and she led him to the back. Another boy was there. He had white hair, which was ridiculously odd and the expression on his face as he observed Tom's entrance was bored and disinterested. Tom decided he didn't like the way the boy looked at him. He returned the look with heavy interest. The boy seemed surprised at such audacity from another boy wearing clothes that didn't carry the same expensive sheen as did his. Tom stepped onto the pedestal as the woman began to take his measurements; he chose to ignore the boy next to him. It wasn't as if he was in the best of moods either way. He had looked around for the hint of mystery he felt within him, the mystery behind his nature and what he was capable of doing. There was nothing.

Then that boy wandered into the shop.

Tom would later recall how his mind raced at the sight of that boy. He recalled strange memories and the things he would sometimes think of alone in his room. After all his wanderings that day, what he saw in that boy's eyes was not at all what he had been looking for. It was not a mystery, nor was it hunger; it could not even be identified as magical. It was an interesting pair of eyes, however, and there was no denying that. The look was plain and factual. He could read everything on that boy's face and he felt and felt as one might feel to be standing in a room only to see one's own replica casually arrive. Tom felt a moment's apprehension as he realised how he could feel his own thoughts, feelings, and spirit coming off this human. There was no describing it except for the familiarity he caught as the boy looked at him.

Green eyes of an entirely overt display of colour harboured behind broken spectacles came into Tom's line of observation and the familiarity of the boy's look was cast from his mind as he surveyed how scruffy this _thing_ appeared to be. His clothes could have capacitated another one of him and his hair was not even worth the effort of a second glance. Tom felt disorganised just looking at him.

Apparently, the other boy seemed to think along the same lines as he watched the hoodlum step onto the third pedestal near him. He was then standing face to face with the white-haired boy, and in Tom's direct line of vision. At that moment, one of the women was measuring his neck so he had to turn his head away as the white-haired boy gave a little smile.

The little snob spoke exactly as Tom had expected him to speak: bored, drawling, and completely bratty. As the final pin was applied to the hem of his robes, Tom looked back over at them. He caught the hoodlum's eye as the other boy drawled on and on, and noticed that the bragging tones and annoying prattle about some senseless Wizarding sport seemed to give the hoodlum something to frown about. Tom did not think badly of him for doing so. He didn't listen to what they were saying, instead he turned his head to look out the front window, now completely annoyed.

The world seemed as pedestrian as the world he knew: still the same boring, senseless people, and the same stupid, mad world. He may have found that he didn't belong in the non-magical world, but he found that same out-of-place feeling bordered his thinking when he looked at these people. There was something missing, he felt as if he had quite forgotten something, a little piece of the routine that should have occurred without his mind telling him.

Tom realised he had drifted off when he realised the woman pinning up the hem of his robes was speaking to him. He looked at her in askance only to hear the white-haired boy mutter, "Mindless idiot, can't you hear when someone's talking to you?"

In a cold fury, he whirled on the boy. "Bit rich coming from you. You talk so much, the rest of the world goes numb just listening to your horrible voice."

And with that, he hopped off the pedestal on which he stood and followed the lady to the front counter. As he pulled out his pouch of money to pay, the hoodlum brushed past him. Tom gave him a glance as he passed and he heard the boy murmur. "Nice one," before he grinned and continued on.

Apart from being appalled at the size of the man with which the hoodlum walked, Tom felt a prickly feeling rise up in his chest. He frowned, cleared his throat a little, but found that he couldn't rid himself of the little smile which kept creeping up on him as he recalled the red-faced look of the pale-haired boy when he said what he said.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Part 1: Wands and Wand Usage**

**A wand serves as a focusing tool that enhances a wizard's capabilities to perform magic. While performing magic without wands is possible, wands are required in most spells. Wands come in many varieties, being made of different woods (such as holly, vine, oak), and having different magical cores (phoenix feather, unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, etc.) The popular wand shop in Diagon Alley, Ollivander's, is the most frequented. **

Tom paused in his reading.

The wand would be a tool for concentration of the energy inside his hands. If it was a channelling tool, then it probably behaved like a transformer on big electrical machines. If he wanted a wand that would concentrate all that energy, he would need one of a precise make. If Tom knew any tree that had enough endurance to handle the work he intended to put to use, it would come from a balsa tree.

In grade school, he had heard mention of the tree and in his queries, he had learned that the balsa tree was famous for its mandible texture, but enduring hardness. Upon that conclusion, he closed his book and headed down the street to Ollivander's.

Tom could not help the unease that crept up upon him at the sight of the wand maker. Ollivander's eyes were like moons and when he shifted carefully toward Tom, Tom found he had to use his last effort to keep eye contact with the man. Finally, he set himself with firm resolve and he said, "I request a wand made from a balsa tree."

The strange, withered man peered ominously at Tom before stepping back. He made a sweeping gesture at the shelves about the room. "What do you see here, young man?"

Tom glanced at the shelves for only a moment. "Boxes," he replied.

Ollivander still had not blinked by the time he smiled slightly. "Precisely; and within each box is a wand of a particular ilk. Now…among these wands is the one set aside for you since before you were even thought of. That wand knows you are powerful, and that you will be great. That wand knows how you operate and what your magic is willing to do. You do not choose which wand is yours, the wand chooses you."

Tom felt a moment's rush of anger at the man. He knew exactly what he wanted, but…supposing that wand _was_, indeed, what he wanted. Tom breathed in quietly and spoke just as quietly. "How do I know that a wand has chosen me?"

Ollivander's colourless lips stretched into a malformed grin. "In just a moment, young man; you will see."

Once more that day, Tom was measured from his arms to his feet. He watched Ollivander roam about the shop, pulling out boxes, peeking inside them, shaking his head, and putting them away. Before he knew it, the strange little man had shoved a thin, smooth wand in his hand. He gazed down at it.

"Blue spruce timber, eight inches; a shielding wand. Try it out," Ollivander whispered.

Tom raised his right hand with the wand in it and brought it down. He felt a burning in his hands, but nothing happened. Ollivander took it back. After the eighth try, Tom was beginning to get frustrated as he swept the wand down in a half circle only to feel or see nothing. That was when Ollivander paused.

"How very strange. You're the second hard find I've had today. Of course the other one was young Mr. Potter, and he-no, there must be something here for you."

As Ollivander clambered up a rickety step ladder to reach another few boxes, Tom looked around a bit helplessly. He _had_ to have a wand; he had not, so far as he had been in this world, seen anyone make do thoroughly without one. He was just contemplating what he might do should there be a lack of success when he felt a stripe of electricity drop into his palm. He looked down at the wand Ollivander had now handed him. It was an inch or two longer than his forearm, but the strength he felt as he touched it was jolting. He felt as if his very name spoken in that moment could have brought all of Diagon Alley down. "This is the one," he breathed, touching the polished wood.

"Seven and a half inches, a purple petal plucked from a Peruvian Lily on the first day of Spring. This is a wand of new beginnings; yours is to create with it, to make things like new, to repair, to heal, and to make your very own brand of magic."

Tom really liked how that sounded. He gripped the cool end and brought the object close to look at the texture of the wood. He already felt it had been his for a long time. "And the tree?" he demanded, whirling on Ollivander. "What was it?"

Ollivander's smile did not indicate amusement, nor did it indicate anything apart from that. "This wand was made in Brazil, the bark taken from a Balsa tree."

Tom tilted his head to the side to survey the man who now stood eye to eye with him. "Muggles use balsa hardwood to build their biggest contraptions."

Ollivander's voice held no inflection on his next words. He only said, "You are not the first man to decide which wand is his, and I have no doubt that you shall do many incredible things with it. What comes to mind, however, is whether these actions will be any different from those who precede you."

Tom didn't want to look at the man with his lunar-eyes anymore. He turned away. He wanted to tell the man, though, that he _wanted_ to do differently. It was just that he did not know whether he had already done what they had.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"I'm going to school," he stated firmly that September first morning, and Bonnie looked at him blankly. He watched as she opened her mouth as if she were trying to retrieve a lost word, a lost duty, and he felt a little bit of disgust curling his lip. That was what made him leave the room.

She came after him, and she was smiling. "I'll call a cab for you, Tom," she said, phone in hand.

"I've already called a cab," he replied, and found that he didn't quite understand why she wanted to do anything for him. He never understood why anyone would, at least not without his offering a favour in return. Tom thought of this as he dragged his trunk into the main hall. Twice, she reached out to grab a handle, and both times she merely bent as if to make a sign of obeisance then stood up straight again and Tom was convinced she must want something.

As the car pulled up near the pavement, Tom thought of exchange and what it meant to reciprocate. That was why he turned back to Bonnie and smiled. Bonnie, however, would later think back to that moment and she would feel that this was why she was a foster mother. Tom would never look back on that moment; he was only making a payment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tom's trolley had a broken wheel. It kept turning in the wrong direction, and Tom was severely vexed by the time he arrived at the ticket stations. Nine and three quarters was an extremely silly number and he didn't understand why the Wizarding World insisted on all this outright ridiculousness. He pushed his trolley towards the platforms; the wheel swerved again and he nearly crashed into platform nine. He stared for a long moment at the small space between nine and ten. On an instinct, he reached out and touched the wall there. It was like pushing one's fingers through dough. His eyes widened, but he made no sound as people passed him. Tom turned to see if anyone was watching. The crowds pushed by in greater numbers as he stepped carefully into the barrier and in a flash, the scent of steam was evident.

Pulling his trunk into the train was perhaps the biggest chore of all. Other kids rushed by with their noises and their fun, and Tom ignored them. He turned his head away from those heads that clustered together, murmuring words at one another. He grunted in determination with his hand clenched to the handle of his trunk as a group of them cried out at the sight of some box an older kid was holding.

Tom hadn't wanted to pause; he was only shifting his weight so that he could approach the train entrance from a better angle. However, it was in this pause that he spotted a bit of green by the tracks. He dropped the handle of his trunk and reached down; his fingers brushed against a set of what felt like scales, but softer. He felt it slipping away, and his hold tightened marginally as he straightened up.

Tom didn't know what to think as he looked the fat toad in the eye.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Since he had come early, finding an empty compartment hadn't been difficult. Keeping people out was another matter. He had told about three groups looking for seats that his friends were already sitting with him and they would be right back He really didn't want a bunch of snotty magical kids in his compartment. He had read in _A History of Magic_ that there were many children born into families with ancient Wizarding blood; he also learned that this kind was dwindling. Tom found himself wondering if there was a difference in the power concentration between the non-magical born children and the ones with the ancient blood.

As he thought on this for all of ten minutes, and as the train began to move, he watched the toad sitting on the window sill as if asleep. Tom was too pensive to sleep just then and he wanted to pull out his Standard Book of Spells again because he had only mastered the first chapter and he didn't care to look stupid against these children who had been raised doing it all their lives..

The compartment door swept open.

The girl was rather ugly; she had massive over-bite and her hair was all over the place. She stepped inside and blinked at him. He thought he should snap at her for being so ugly and for carting around with her a boy who wasn't trying hard enough not to cry.

Her moment of registering Tom in her thoughts passed and she set her hands on her hips. "We're looking for a toad; Neville here can't find his."

Tom glanced at the window sill where the fat amphibian gazed blearily at the scene before it. The chubby, tearful boy gasped and cried, "Trevor!"

The horrible girl had the audacity to smile at him. Tom thought she might leave faster if he smiled back, but she seemed to take it as a cue to sit down. "Thanks ever so much; See, Neville; I told you we'd find him."

Neville only sniffed as he hugged Trevor. Tom would have run away as well had he been the toad. There was a moment before he realised that the girl was talking to him again.

"Aren't you excited? I'm incredibly excited; I've always kind of known I was something special. There had to be a reason why I picked up things so quickly and why those strange things kept happening!"

It occurred to Tom right then that if he chose to be incautious, he could find himself acquiring some unwanted clingers-on and that meant this one. He knew he was making her comfortable by nodding his head and offering a small smile occasionally, but her talking bothered him, her presence alone made him want to kick something.

"So what's your name?" she asked.

Tom found himself looking at Neville, who was talking to his toad. He needed someone he could have by him so that others wouldn't assume he needed someone.

"My name is Tom." He was irritated to find that he was bracing himself for her next question.

"Tom. I have a second cousin named Tom," she laughed. "But of course, he's a Tom Granger. What's _your_ surname?"

Tom felt he should be honest in case she chose to remain with him for the rest of the train ride. "I haven't one. My mum's dead, and no one ever knew my dad. I'm just Tom."

He knew the way they were gazing at him was to be expected, but he suddenly wanted to be alone. He looked back out the window.

"Oh, Tom; I'm really sorry. If I'd known…"

He sighed. What a ridiculous thing for her to say. Of course she wouldn't have known. She had a tactful way of changing the subject, however.

"Oh, Neville, we were in such a hurry to find your toad that I hadn't the opportunity to ask you. What did you think of Harry Potter?"

Neville started and glanced at Tom, then looked back at the girl. "I didn't really see his scar; he might have been lying. My Gran says that Potter was supposed to be in our year, but maybe he got bumped up to third year straight away since he's so powerful."

The girl's eyes widened. "Wow! Imagine being bumped up just like that. Well, he did defeat You-Know-Who right?"

Tom spoke. "Who is Harry Potter?"

They both whirled on him. "He's the hero of the Wizarding World," Neville exclaimed. "He defeated You-Know-Who when he was just a baby!"

"He's in our textbooks as The Boy Who Lived!" the girl cried.

"The-Boy-Who-Lived?" Tom repeated sceptically. "Why is that so special?"

Neville laughed, but stopped when Tom looked at him. Tom didn't like to give people the feeling that it was a nice thing to laugh at him.

"You don't understand," the girl broke in. "No one knows why Harry Potter didn't die when You Know Who tried to kill him…"

Tom felt a tingle of something like electricity shoot through his bones and he nearly coughed as he asked softly, "And You-Know-Who is?"

The girl was looking at him incredulously. "Didn't you read the textbooks?"

"I did," Tom replied shortly.

"Then how could you have missed that part?"

"I skimmed them. I only truly read what interested me. I liked Defense Against the Dark Arts…."

"Oh," she said, her eyebrows drawing together at his tone. "Well, You Know Who was the worst dark wizard since Grindelwald, who was defeated by the man who is going to be our headmaster! You-Know-Who was really powerful and everything, and lots of people tried to resist him, but the people following him were too many. I read in History of Magic that he had a hundred giants on his side."

Tom shook his head and leaned forward. "I still don't get it. Didn't he have a name? Who _was_ he?"

Neville jumped in, his round face shining with excitement. "You can't say the name. No one can and no one does because my Gran says it's not polite."

"But why? Was he so awful? Tell me his name."

The girl was looking at him with a mixture of confusion and sympathy. "I-I think it's in the book. You can read it there."

Tom looked at Neville, and then he looked at the girl. He smiled suddenly because he remembered how she had warmed to his smile. This time, Neville smiled back as Tom laughed a little. "Sorry. I was just a little curious. The whole story sounds so fascinating. Is the hero of the Wizarding World really on this train?"

The girl gave a half-shrug and smiled. "That's all right, Tom."

Tom stood up. "Well, I want to go have a look at him," he sighed.

Both Neville and the girl started. "What?" they echoed one another.

Tom turned to the door, a smirk changing his features. "You two saw him; I'd like to see him too. Which compartment is it?"

"But you have to change into your robes. We're nearly there!" the girl cried as if to stall for time.

Neville seemed torn between not getting Tom angry, and taking the girl's side. "He's two compartments away from the end of the train."

Tom turned and with a fleeting grin, addressed Neville. "Thanks, Neville. Perhaps we may be good friends."

Neville appeared completely terrified at the thought, but Tom stepped out into the hallway.

It was only when he was jostled by a group of older students as he stepped up to the compartment he knew the alleged hero must be in, he realised that Neville was at his elbow with the girl trailing a little behind. He turned and looked at them in consternation.

Neville was still clutching his toad, and his upper lip was sweaty. Tom didn't like him. "Why are you following me?" he demanded, before he could catch himself. Neville started and his words tumbled over one another.

"I-I reckoned you-I mean-that it would be less awkward if-well-if someone was with you."

Tom opened his mouth to give a scathing reply before he could stop himself once more, but poor Neville was saved the withering reply as the compartment door crashed open and two horribly large boys came lumbering out and following them, just in time to crash into Tom was that god-awful boy white-haired boy from the robe shop. Tom fell backwards and hit the compartment behind him as the little idiot's elbow hit his solar plexus. In the tangle of arms and legs, Tom found that he was extremely vexed and he wanted that foul boy off him.

When Tom opened his eyes, the boy was sliding at top speed down the corridor, shrieking at the top of his lungs and there was a group of people now staring at him. That group included one particularly familiar hoodlum with green eyes and black hair.

Tom got up, burning with irritation and a little bit of humiliation. How dare that boy lumber about the place, crashing into people? The girl was bouncing about, asking in high tones, "Are you all right, Tom?"

"Of course I'm all right," he snapped, still feeling a wave of heated rage up his back.

"It's you," said a voice.

Tom, with some resignation, turned to face the hoodlum. Why were all the people on this train completely idiotic? It was only now that Tom realised that he was a little bit taller than the boy, and Tom still felt irritated. It was ridiculous because he still felt that feeling of complete familiarity and his blood simmered in his skin to the point he felt he needed to hurt something, anything to make this pain, or whatever uncomfortable feeling in his skin was, go away. Tom, however, did what appeared wisest in the present situation. He turned to Neville.

"I've seen enough; let's go," he muttered as he turned, and Neville, as Tom surmised, shuffled after him.

They had almost reached their compartment when Neville finally took the deep breath he was working up to since they stepped about a foot away from the hoodlum and asked, "Well, what did you think?"

"About what?" he asked, slipping his compartment door open and sitting in his seat by the window. He watched Neville enter and set his toad on the seat near him.

"About Harry Potter. You seemed like you wanted to see him so badly…."

Tom shrugged. "I never saw him."

Neville sat down slowly, eyeing Tom with bemusement and Tom was tempted to give him a filthy look for staring at him like that. "You never saw him? B-but you were staring right at him."

Tom looked at Neville. Perhaps the other boy was more perceptive than he let on and he was playing a nasty joke on Tom. Tom hated to think what he would have to do if that was true. He glared at Neville until Neville dropped his gaze. Tom realised that Neville might end up disliking him. He took a moment to consider whether that may be of any consequence. Then he thought of how frequently he had made a fool of himself today just from not knowing something. He had all year to learn what he needed, but he wanted information within the moment. Neville seemed quite the willing follower, but Tom realised that there was no need to mistreat him.

Tom smiled again and laughed in that way that made Neville look relieved. "Hey, Neville," Tom began.

"What is it?" Neville replied.

"That girl you were with; is she your friend?"

Neville looked puzzled. "What? Hermione Granger? No, she was just being nice. I don't have any friends," he replied, then after a moment realised his words and reddened. "I mean…"

Tom knew the trick was to fill himself with the need to improve the life before him. That would increase his interest in the person, and aid him in his effort to be friendly at all times. Tom laughed, and felt a little grotesque just doing so, but it seemed to ease the atmosphere a little. He said quietly as if relating a secret. "That's OK; I have trouble making friends too."

Neville gave him a look of empathy right before Trevor jumped from his perch and made for the door. Tom reached down and caught the toad right before its desperate exit came to be. Neville accepted Trevor back with a look of great gratitude. "Thanks. He keeps trying to get away! It's a good thing you're quick. Look, if there's anything you need so I can pay you back for saving him, just…" he trailed off, and Tom decided the words would be trite anyway if he finished and that he didn't mind because Neville had led the way.

"Well…" Tom sighed, "you could be my friend."

Neville grinned for a moment as he looked down at his toad.

Tom was satisfied.

"So, Neville, I hear the school is separated into houses. Which one is the best?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Slytherin!"

He watched the blonde boy who turned out to be called Draco Malfoy moved on to the table at the end. Neville had already departed to the Gryffindor table and it seemed like a good idea….

When Harry Potter was called, Tom watched him. He really was a sad-looking fellow in Tom's opinion. There was nothing heroic about this one. He seemed too thin and awkward as his eyes scanned the room. His huge green eyes were magnified by those stupid glasses and he shuffled his feet as he made his way toward the stool.

The room was quiet as Potter sat there silently while the hat deliberated. Tom thought it was possible that it may be quite hard to decide how a hero, who must be good in all areas, could be categorised. When the hat shouted "Gryffindor," Tom was a bit disappointed. He thought that maybe, after what Neville said about the Slytherins, that Potter deserved to turn out badly.

He was called last of all, what with the absence of a surname on his part. As Tom took his seat on the stool and the whole hall watched him, he decided that if the Hero of the Wizarding World was sorted into Gryffindor, then Tom would probably do well to assimilate whatever _he_ had. He watched the room disappear from under the brim.

He felt a wheezing voice begin to mutter in what he wasn't sure was his brain or his right ear. "_Now this is a stranger one. You have a jumble of things here in your head. You want to go far; you want to break chains, and you want to regain all you've lost. Each House has its way of taking you there, but the question is in what manner _you_ want to get there."_

Tom pursed his lips and thought at the Hat. "_I just don't want to be mediocre. I don't want to make mistakes that have been made by others already!_"_ "Is that so, Tom the Nameless? I think you've cleared up your priorities well enough to make the call right here."_

"_You mean I could choose?_"

"_It is the choices that govern who we are, isn't it?"_

" _They say Ravenclaw is for the studious, Slytherin for cunning, Gryffindor for bravery, and Hufflepuff for loyalty. I don't need loyalty, but…I want to be great so I never have to worry about anything…_"

Tom had not even finished the thought when he heard the Sorting Hat shout. He started as the hat was removed from his head and he wondered if he had really chosen. He was about to, but did the Hat read into his deepest of thoughts and find the answer? He could still hear the applause as he sat down at the table, his second thoughts seeping in as he half-glared, half-studied the red and gold colours of the House he now belonged to.


	3. Chapter Two

**_-Time Or Manner-_**

**Chapter Two**

Tom sat down beside Neville and looked around. Every student dressed in black robes seemed as excited as he was. They laughed and chatted with one another considering the possibilities which lay ahead and the new experiences before them. Tom was mostly fascinated with the Great Hall.

The towering pillars were off-white and they reached up farther than perhaps ten men put together could touch. It was, of course, the ceiling that had him so transfixed. It was a partially clear night as the stars stood out and clouds of palest grey drifted over the moon. He gazed carefully at the table at the very front of the room where robed men and women sat speaking quietly. He saw Professor McGonagall, who had brought them to be sorted, but he recognised no one other than that. It was, however, as his eyes met a piercing blue that Tom's heart jumped. The man who was seated at the very centre of the table was looking back at him; the candlelight seemed to make the spectacles perched on his long nose glitter, and the white of both his hair and his beard allowed for a certain benevolence which made Tom suspicious.

The old man gave Tom a small smile before looking away. Tom immediately rounded on Neville.

"That's our Headmaster?" he demanded quietly.

Neville followed his gaze and nodded quickly. "Yeah; that's Dumbledore. My Gran says he's the only person more famous than Potter since he's so powerful. He defeated a Dark wizard years and years ago, but I can't remember what else he's done. All I know is that he's brilliant!"

Tom considered this just as the aforementioned Dumbledore stood up and made an utter fool of himself. Tom stared at him as a few students broke into applause or shaky laughter, and some others exchanged glances.

"What," murmured Tom, still staring, "did he just say?"

Neville only shrugged and looked away. This was not because he wasn't interested in what else Tom had to say, but mainly because there was food at the table. Tom looked at the trays now in front of him. They were covered in dishes, soups, and pastries. Pots of steamed potatoes hissed as the other kids lifted the lids, and Tom could only gaze as a redhead seated beside Harry Potter wolfed down a bowl of stew.

It was not as if he had been underfed at the foster home, it was just that there had always been so much of a row about who got what and why. Tom, at a young age when there had been a lot of older children already fighting for the best bits, was well-aware that it was not in his best interest to be bestial about the subject lest he be regarding unfavourably by them.

As dessert appeared, an older girl set a plate of strawberry mousse in front of him with a smile. He looked up at her for a quick furtive moment. He was saved having to make any response as Neville tapped his arm. He seemed about to speak, but the conversation at the table had veered, and Neville turned at a question from the freckled redhead.

"What about you, Neville?"

"Me? What?"

"Yeah. Are you Muggleborn or what?"

Neville gave a half-smile and shook his head. "Not exactly…my Gran brought me up and she's a witch, but the family thought I was all muggle for ages. My great-uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me- he pushed me off the end of the Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned- but nothing happened until I was eight. Great-uncle Algie came round for tea and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great-auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. However, I bounced-all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased. Gran was crying; she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here- they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. My Great-uncle Algie was so pleased, he bought me my toad."

Tom listened to this with some interest. He could not quite remember ever having been without his powers. Once he had noticed he could move things, make things happen and undo things, it was only a matter of time until he was motivated to learn how to control these things. Yet the matter of Neville having been completely without magic troubled him. Was it possible that a boy born to a family of Wizards might not be able to do magic? It made him wonder about his parents; something he rarely bothered doing as it returned very little result with just pure reasoning.

It was as the talk over Neville's story finished that Tom felt a pair of eyes fixed on him. Potter's eyes slid away as he looked up, then furtively glanced up at him again. Tom took a brief moment to marvel at how poorly raised this _hero_ must be. He found himself frowning back at the boy with deep annoyance. At that moment, as he glared, the boy's hand clapped to his forehead quickly in an expression of confusion and pain. Tom stared at him, and Potter reddened.

It was Neville who broke the silence finally with a worried glance between Potter and him. "Erm…this is Tom," he muttered lamely at the rest of those listening.

Tom found it crude that he needed to be introduced. He gave a bright smile and addressed the rest of the table, pointedly looking away from the stupid hoodlum. "Yeah, I'm Tom."

A few of them grinned back, but Potter continued blinking at him in that same confusion and wonderment. Tom contemplated the possibility that Potter may have been driven loopy from his surviving of this You-Know-Who's curse.

The Headmaster chose then to stand up and address the whole Great Hall and Tom was relieved to turn his mind away from the deranged lunatic sitting opposite him.

It appeared, so far, that the school was organised just like any other school. There was order, rules, and marking; the only difference would be that he would be educated in something he _knew_ he was good at, something he was particularly interested in as opposed to the abstract numbers of mathematics, and the repetitive storybooks from his childhood. The headmaster Dumbledore talked about restrictions, the forest, magic in the corridors; all that. Nothing the headmaster said really caught Tom's attention except for the one remark that seemed to insinuate a lurking danger right within the castle. The third floor corridor was forbidden due to unknown circumstances. He looked around at the reaction of all those present. Most took the warnings seriously save for the select few who laughed at the manner in which he put the regulation.

Then they were singing and Tom was already prepared to despise this Headmaster for his effort at being most truly mad, and he was beginning to despise the establishment who put this batty old man in charge. He sat back in his chair as the music began at different tunes and as the golden letters looped their way over the head table. Was this a day-care or was this a school? Tom did not care to allow himself to be drawn into such mediocre behaviour.

He was no longer a child, after all.

* * *

Tom liked the Common Room _and _their boy's dormitory. What he found he didn't like was the presence of other people within them. The common room was noisy with laughing, common magic, shouting and howling from young boys and girls. The older students talked loudly and played their games. Tom watched all this for barely a moment before he turned on his heel to head towards the dormitory. 

The other boys were already there, getting undressed and throwing their things around. Tom looked about the round tower room from the beds beneath scarlet hangings, the domed ceiling, to the comfortable window seat in the middle.The redhead was occupying the third bed from the door right next to where Potter was rummaging through his trunk. A black boy was pasting up a football poster as another sandy-haired one watched, and Neville was placing Trevor in what appeared to be a box with holes.

"I just don't want him running off," Neville explained as Tom stepped closer. "That bed's yours by the way," he added, indicating the second bed left from the door. His trunk lay at the foot of his bed and the hangings were pushed up and tied neatly back. Tom, however, did not feel like sleeping. He was too excited about classes the next day and was hoping against the advent of disappointment arising from more silliness on the part of the teachers.

The room was spacious, though. There was at least a metre between each bed and a night table stood in the far corner, and on it, a pitcher of water with glasses sat. It certainly was not a bad room. It was warm after all.

It was only as Potter rose, pyjama-clad, that Tom realised that he had been placed next to the boy-hero. It seemed Potter made an attempt at smiling, but Tom knew it was taking too much effort for the stupid boy to do so, so he positioned himself facing away from that bed, and met Neville's eyes. Neville seemed to give him what seemed an empathetic look which made Tom a little more at ease with his irritation.

"Do you think it'll be difficult?" Neville whispered to him as the lights went out.

Tom considered the question for a moment. He though of the social workers, counsellors, and teachers, who would tell him he couldn't make it too far and that he shouldn't take on what is most difficult all the time. He felt a sneer under the expanse of emotions upon him right then. "I don't think anything is difficult, Neville. It's just that you need to realise your own extraordinary power to overcome what other people want you to think."

Neville smiled at this. "I'm not good at most things, but I know how to work at them. You'll help me, right?"

Tom resisted the urge to mock him and sighed. "With my help, you'll be top of the class and your family won't be surprised when you do something worth talking of."

Neville looked at him for a while with sleep in his eyes and Tom wanted to have some time to think on his own. It was bad enough the way the day had gone so far.

"Thanks," Neville murmured, closing his eyes.

Tom didn't reply. He turned over; thinking of what use Neville would be to him beside the benefit of contrast. He was so busy that he didn't realise he had turned and faced Potter again.

Potter was lying on his back, looking up at the roof of his canopy. His hangings were pulled back just as Tom's were, and Tom wondered what he was thinking. As he looked at that disproportionate hairstyle over those brilliant eyes, he was more confused. He wasn't happy right now; he had no special reason to be, seeing as how uncomfortable he felt with the establishment. Yet, there seemed to be waves of contentment flying from the bed next to his, a still happiness he had not felt before. He had not felt it until this moment, but it was inside him, lifting his heart. He was tired, and Tom considered the fact that it might be his own sleepiness making him feel this way. The next moment he realised that this was ridiculous as he had not been sleepy a moment ago.

It was only as Potter's eyes fluttered shut and he too felt like drifting off that he felt a strange twinge of a memory: frightening and unsure. He woke up the next morning thinking of cold, green light, screams, and a reflection that was his, but he couldn't recognise.

* * *

It was at the very advent of the day that Tom realized that there would be no manner in which he could arrive to class on time. Students were standing in crowds throughout the corridors, backtracking whenever the first-year Gryffindors passed by. It was not because the passing of First Years was anything sensational, but more for the fact that Potter was within the throng. Whispers followed their group and there was nothing Tom could do so as to make it on time. It was horrible enough that the castle was a complete obstacle course as it was, but nothing worked at all the way it was meant to. 

It occurred to Tom that it was beyond enough when he was on his way to Transfiguration. He was walking with Neville and two other Gryffindor girls who had chosen not to speak to either of them. Potter and the other boys were ahead of them, and another class had just adjourned; the hall quickly filled with Sixth Years. One girl took a look at Potter and gave a gasp and the other students with her turned.

"Is that him?" they whispered.

"Oh my God; there's the scar!"

Tom took a moment as the others stopped in their tracks to look at Potter. Potter kept on walking as his red-haired accomplice made furtive glances back and forth from the whisperers to Potter.Tom could almost sense Potter's need to continue on, ignoring the presence of their commiseration and distant awe. Tom suddenly hated all those sixth years for their blatant stupidity and inability at tact.

Yet, it was in that minute of empathy that he realised how truly ridiculous he was being. He also realised that he did not want to be late for Transfiguration and he deduced the possibility that he could probably access the Transfiguration classroom if he passed through the corridor close to that large Gargoyle and go through a classroom provided that it would be empty. Should he do this fast enough, he would get to class on time and avoid all Potter-traffic.

He turned around and pretended not to be aware of Neville's stare.

The corridor was, thankfully, empty and he felt considerably more determined as he passed into the hallway. As he hiked his book bag higher on his shoulder, he heard voices.

"-look completely alike! I don't know why you don't seem concerned, Albus!"

"Minerva, there are many reasons that someone might be concerned in such a situation, but I can assure you that we have nothing to fear just now."

Tom stopped where he stood, unable to turn the corner. He must have found himself near the Staff Room, and was now an audience to what appeared to be an important conversation. The woman's voice was sharp and imploring and the man's was-well, Tom knew there was no mistaking the flippantly congenial Headmaster. He leaned back against the stone and wondered vaguely what they were on about.

"Albus, with all due respect, you yourself said that You-Know-Who was not completely destroyed. Who is to say that this is not the way in which he intends to return to power?"

"I have several different theories and guesses. None of these move parallel to _your_ theory, unfortunately. Were he to return, he most certainly would not take the form of a weakened, orphaned schoolboy."

"That may be so, Albus, but that cannot counter the feeling I have about the boy."

"If his name was down for the school then he must be permitted attendance, as I said in August.Treat him no differently and if my guesses are correct, which they usually are, all will unfold itself in time. Do you not have a class with the Gryffindors right now?"

"Ah, yes; I was just on my way. I thought I would stop and-well, I should like to speak about this again this evening…"

"As you wish, Minerva. Heaven knows, it takes great care to convince one of your intelligent demeanour."

Tom could only think of two things as he heard this and the first was of Potter. It was entirely possible that his survival of the Dark Wizard's curse might have been a ruse to take people's eyes off the war. The second held his attention more than any other thought. _Voldemort_. The name bothered him; it bothered him greatly. Yet, with the presence of those two thoughts at once, Tom, being of a quick mind, came to a jolting conclusion.

"It's perfect," he breathed. You-Know-Who may have found some way to channel his energies into Potter, making him his protégé, winning the hearts of the Wizarding World, and finally taking power again. It explained everything! There could have been no way that the only person capable of defeating this greatly feared Dark Wizard was a boy with not even enough sense to brush his hair in the morning. You-Know-Who had to be using him in some way….

Curiosity drove his thinking then as he set off for Transfiguration. Moreover, it was still curiosity, he told himself, that made him look up and meet that emerald gaze as he entered the classroom.

* * *

_After the Wizarding elections of March 5, 1973, Voldemort and his supporters began a systematic takeover of the local__governments throughout the United Kingdom, ending a centuries old tradition of Wizarding democracy. Armed with wands, his most valued supporters (referred to as Death Eaters, see page seventeen, figure 3.4) barged into the local ministry offices using the State of Emergency decree__ (see decrees against the Muggleborn as a pretext to throw out legitimate office holders and replace them with his own. He was a threat to Muggles, Muggleborns, the Wizards who protected them._

Chewing on his bottom lip, Tom flipped forward a page. He wanted to read the part about Potter; he felt it would provide some form of clue as to what happened the day Voldemort was supposedly defeated.

_Then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named made a move which would mark the end of the war. On a cold Halloween night, he stepped through the doorway of the Potter's. James Potter, the heir to the Potter legacy, married to Lily Evans, was said to have been the first to die. The manner which caused the fall of the notorious evil wizard are unknown.__All that can be specified is that the child of that marriage, Harry James Potter, is the only known survivor of the irreversible Killing curse. Voldemort was destroyed and it was evident that the attack which He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named put upon the Potter house that evening was thwarted by little Harry, and to this day he is known as The Boy Who Lived. _

Tom shut the book with a snap, disgusted. People were always so easily fooled. If no one knew what happened that evening then why were they so quick to worship this simple boy?Tom turned in his chair by the fire at the sudden sound of unruly voices behind him. It was nearly eight o' clock and he was in the Common Room buried in his book as a group of his year mates were at a rowdy game of Exploding Snap. He spotted Neville seated by himself a little ways away. Neville seemed to feel Tom's gaze and looked up. He smiled gratefully and made his way over to where Tom sat.

"May I ask you something, Neville?"

"Sure," he replied, taking a seat.

"How is it people _know_ that Potter defeated Voldemort?"

Neville's eyes widened and his mouth went slack before he sat back in his chair. "You said the _name._ You shouldn't say the name!"

Tom frowned. "And just why not?"

Neville paused, looking back at him, frightened. "I don't know. It just isn't right; you could cause heart attacks just saying his name in public!"

Tom looked down at his book, thinking on this. "I automatically assumed people didn't say itonly because they didn't know what his name was." Tom rather thought the whole thing was just nonsense. Why were they so afraid if they thought he was dead? There was no reason to fear a dead man. If a man wasabsent then he hadless influence, less influence meant less power. Tom remembered reading that in a book once about corporate franchises.

Neville was still watching him, so Tom looked at him again. "Yes, I understand now, but you haven't answered my question," he pressed quietly.

He hesitated, his round blue eyes thoughtful. "I suppose I know why you ask stuff like this. All this is new to you, isn't it?" I'm all right with telling you all of it, since we're friends."

Though it seemed interesting that Neville felt the need to remind him that they were friends, Tom ignored this and nodded, setting his book beside him in the chair.

"People know he did it because of his scar. The Killing Curse left a scar on his forehead in the form of a lightning bolt. If that's all the Killing Curse did, it must mean that Harry defeated him!"

Tom felt like throttling him. He didn't understand! Didn't they realise that Voldemort might still be around; that he could be in possession of their own boy-hero? As he looked at Neville, Tom saw that he was going to be on his own in his theory, which was just fine with him. He had read of many geniuses who were isolated because of their ideas. There would be great benefit for him in his unmasking the hero's dark side. He could picture the honour these people had so easily given to a one-year old child bestowed upon him instead. They would write down his name in Wizarding history as the boy who had vanquished the Dark Lord where Potter couldn't.

He opened the book again. He wanted to find out what exactly Voldemort hadwanted in life. Everyone has motivation for their actions, and he needed to know just what might make this dark wizard take the form of a boy his age at school. What was at the school that Voldemort may have wanted?

"Hey, Tom; we should go try a game of Exploding Snap. I think I have a deck in my trunk," Neville offered quickly.

Tom was prepared to watch the other boy wither and die just then, but he shook his head casually and returned to the book.

"Don't you like games, Tom?"

"Of course I like games," he replied in a muffled voice, trying to sit facing away from Neville. What would be the nicest way to tell the boy to sod off, he wondered.

"Oh, hi Neville. Erm…hi, Tom," said a voice.

Tom, with some resignation, looked up. Hermione Granger had joined them. He gave her a nod, and hoped that Hermione would talk her head off at Neville so _he_ could see how it bloody felt.

"Just finished Transfiguration homework," she offered brightly, "I was worried it would take ages, but it only took half an hour. How long did it take you, Tom?"

Tom decided that if he didn't close his book and set it aside, he might just strike her with it. He was fully aware since the beginning of classes today that Hermione was someone who liked to talk about what she knew offhandedly so as to strike up conversation. She also knew entirely too much. Tom felt a little vindictive.

"Five minutes or so," he returned with a soft smile at her.

Neville gaped, and while Tom had been expecting Hermione to go a bit red with embarrassment, she merely beamed. "Oh really? That's brilliant! We can trade papers, and double-check them. I always worry that I've missed something and I've often heard that you can't always pick up on your own errors."

"Oh, you've both done yours, already? It's not due 'til Friday!" Neville moaned. "How am I supposed to keep up?"

Tom reached into his book bag and pulled out his parchment. The truth was, it had taken him two hours straight after lessons to perfect it, and he knew it would put everyone else's to shame. He casually held it out to Neville. "There. Just read it over and write something out in your own words."

Neville looked exultant. "Thanks a million! Oh, look you even have footnotes and everything! I can tell her where I got the information. This is brilliant!"

Tom smirked. "Now you _owe_ me."

Neville had an expression on his face that seemed to say he would gladly cut off his left arm to pay Tom back. This expression did not displease Tom.

But Hermione was scandalised. "Tom! You shouldn't do that! How on earth will he learn?!"

He turned to her, making sure his tone was light, but firm. "He will _learn_ that he can always turn to _me_ for help."

As Neville laughed, she gave a grudging smile. "Will you look over mine, though? I _know_ the sentence at the end of my third paragraph is a bit awkward."

He nodded, knowing that Hermione would later be of great use in his effort at saving the Wizarding World.

* * *

Tom couldn't quite decipher Professor Snape. He was cold, mean, and generally unpleasant. All his behaviour could only be attributed to his complete and blazing hatred for Potter along with anyone associated with Potter. This left Tom, being a Gryffindor, in an uncompromising position of despising the horrible man. 

Tom was not the type of person to take offence on someone else's behalf; obviously, Snape's disgust for Potter was justified in some way. He sought favourably to make a fool of Potter, which served the other boy right for not having read any of the material before class, and Tom was not about to question any of the teacher's principles. However, it was upon that moment when Snape paused at his boil-removing solution that Tom realised he could very well do without the existence of such a teacher.

He and Neville had been paired together so naturally Tom had not allowed Neville to touch a single thing on the table. He had followed the directions perfectly, and he had _seen_ the other student's potions.He waited for Snape to pass by his table, and it was Snape's silence that struck him with such a fury that he felt the tips of his fingers tingle.

Snape stopped at the table, looked down at the potion-his eyebrows rising-, and walked by, barely giving Tom a second glance. "It was more than passable," Tom muttered fiercely.

"Don't worry about it," Neville muttered back, consolingly. "I heard Snape always favours his own house."

Tom's irritated gaze followed Snape to the table in front where the smug form of Draco Malfoy stood, adding his ingredients as Snape offered him an encouraging nod. In that nod, Tom felt that Snape professed a favouritism that went beyond unseemly. It was not calm jealously that plagued Tom right then, but an ugly dissatisfaction. _His_ was worth the ten points awarded to Malfoy's! There was often very little motivation required to trigger Tom's instinctive vengeance, and this hadbeenmore than enough.

His fingers, resting on the table, dug deep into the wood and the back of his hand brushed against the porcupine quills. He looked down at the ingredients in front of him. The instructions stated that he should add the porcupine quills after removing the cauldron from the flame. He turned and flipped back to his ingredient index and read quickly through.

"My father says I'm bound to be a natural at Potions, but then, it could be your excellent teaching, sir." Draco's voice carried through the dungeon, and several Gryffindors shot him looks of disgust.

Tom looked up from his book just as Snape spoke. "I want you _all_ to pay close attention to the care Mr. Malfoy takes with his ingredients. None of you could possibly have stewed these horned slugs any better."

"Stand clear, Neville," Tom spat at Neville, who stumbled back in bewilderment as Tom swept the entire set of porcupine quills into his potion.As the smoke rose, Tom gritted his teeth, watching Snape.

A loud hissing filled the dungeon, and Tom's cauldron rocked off its pedestal as an acidic smoke filled the air. Every student whirled around in their chairs as the now toxic substance melted through the bottom of the cauldron and the stone floor sizzled from the liquid seeping toward the front of the room.

Snape whipped around at the sound of exclamations from behind him. He moved forward with purpose, drawing his wand. Tom waited for those calculating black eyes to fall on him, but Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and turned on Neville, who, despite Tom's quick warning, had managed to immerse his foot in the substance.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Tom looked in outrage at Neville, who seemed to take it as a threat to keep quiet. How could Snape be so blind as to think Neville was capable of causing such a catastrophe? That was when Snape glanced at him, his eyes dark with irritation. "Take him to the hospital wing!" he spat, and swept on.

Neville whimpered vaguely as he stumbled toward the door. With a sick huff of displeasure, Tom took Neville's elbow and guided him towards the dungeon exit. He turned once more as he heard Snape speak again.

"You –Potter – why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor," Snape told Potter coldly.

It was as Potter's mouth opened at the injustice that a spasm of rage convulsed Tom, a white heat rushed up his back, and he was shocked to feel a sharp pain over his left eyebrow. His breath caught, and Potter turned to look at him, confusion written in his expression. Tom looked back at him for a moment, warily. A slight fear of the unknown made Tom move, as he continued to grip Neville's elbow, and lead him from the room.

* * *

The library was practically empty. 

It was bound to be on a Friday evening, and Tom felt a moment's relief as he took a seat at one of the tables between the shelves. He felt enclosed and safe, his position unseen to anyone entering the library. This included Madam Pince, who didn't bother to prowl around the bookshelves when the library was so empty.

There was much to think about. He had attended all his classes this week, and he had finally come across the trend that had been bothering him; the feeling of unease which came with the end of each class. The teachers were pretending he wasn't there. _No_, he thought. _It's not that._ They were working their way around him, but watching him nonetheless. Professor McGonagall awarded Hermione Granger twenty points for knowing about switching spells, but when Tom had successfully switched the cabinet at the right end of the room with the bookcase on the other end, McGonagall had looked at him a moment, forced a pale smile and moved on. Flitwick was even more obvious about it; his small countenance was fixed upon the end of the room where Potter was, and avoided reacting to anything Tom came up with.

Tom's fists clenched. It was not infuriating that they ignored _him_, per se, but that they refused to acknowledge how extraordinary it must be for him to do these things without effort. He could feel the talent resonating from him as he worked day by day, and he could see how amazed they were, yet why? _Why?_ His breathing slowed as he thought a moment. His mind wandered to Potter. Potions had been their last class for the day, so he couldn't quite decide if it were feasible that Potter had it in for him.

He could almost feel those bright eyes looking at him right then. This made him shift in his seat. Closing his eyes quickly, he bent his head over the table, his fingers entwined in his hair. A long-suffering silence followed before he sighed and bent to unearth his books. _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ lay open in front of him, but he could hardly concentrate. This whole issue with Potter was digging into his thoughts persistently. What was Potter after? In addition, what could Tom possibly do to put a stop to him? And why was this affecting him more than others?

It would be simple-no, laughably easy-to answer his last question. Tom knew he must stand out, and if it seemed this Voldemort was as brilliant as Tom had heard (which Tom doubted as he was supposedly taken apart by an infant) then Potter must already be aware of Tom. Tom supposed that he was the only person to be aware of what loomed behind those green eyes. He could feel it, that darkness, every time Potter looked at him, every time he felt that stinging pain in both his gut and his forehead. Potter wanted to control him; his emotions; and perhaps, if Tom chose not to be cautious, his actions.

_That must not happen_, he thought furiously. _I cannot dare go near him; he may see through me. I need to know what he does when no one is there. Who he keeps near him. _Everything!

* * *

"Why is Ron Weasley so disagreeable?" he asked Hermione on Thursday at breakfast after one of her careful and justified remarks was snubbed. 

Hermione turned on him as if he were Providence. Tom smiled at her. "I don't understand either of them. Harry's smart, I know he is, but he lets that Ron Weasley convince him to talk the way he does all the time. And you should hear the type of language he uses." She frowned and looked back at both Potter and Weasley muttering quietly over a newspaper.

Neville leaned around Tom. "I think Harry's awfully nice."

Tom didn't care what Neville thought, and he offered Neville a sharp look to prove it. He could never really conceive what must go on in that boy's head. "They just don't take things seriously. They're the type that will straighten out a little too late if at all."

Hermione nodded fervently. "I don't want to waste time on them, anyway." She reached under the table and pulled out a book titled _Quidditch Through the Ages. _"Anyway, I suppose we'll need some advice on flying before we go out there so I borrowed this from the library."

Neville leaned around Tom again. "Oh good! I was so nervous all week about flying lessons. I never went_ near_ a broom, and I _know_ I won't be any good."

A few people had turned to listen at the mention of flying lessons and Tom was vexed. His planned conversation with Hermione would have to be cut short. She opened the book to chapter twelve, chatting about how the book provided some useful advice like how to hold the end, how to mount a broom. Tom couldn't take it.

"You're not _really_ going to read that aloud, are you?"

Hermione started and looked at him, so did many others. It was a truth well-known that Tom only spoke quietly to Neville or Hermione at meal times or rarely lifted his head from _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts._ His sudden public speech attracted attention. Tom was vexed again as Potter set his eyes on him.

"I-I was thinking that maybe this information would be useful," she stammered at him.

He rolled his eyes. "You cannot _inform_ anyone about a _practical _subject. This is something that you have to experience in order to learn," he returned bluntly.

The boy named Finnigan seemed to see this as a conversation-opener. "Do you know about flying? I heard you were Muggleborn."

Neville laughed. "Tom's a natural at everything, though."

He knew all the first-year Gryffindors were looking at him. At least _they_ had noticed he was a genius. However, the timing was off. Tom didn't know a thing about flying, and he thought the concept of fulfilling the archetype of witch or wizard by riding on a broom was ridiculous. If Tom wanted to fly, he would like to know how to do so without the aid of a cleaning utensil. He raised his eyebrows in what he knew was a curious and innocent expression.

"Would you say I'm a natural?" he inquired politely.

The one named Thomas broke in. "Come off it! We _all_ saw how you switched that cabinet with the bookcase!"

"Yeah, that was cool!" Finnigan added.

"The other day when we were practicing Charms, Tom did the Levitation charm from all the way in chapter five!" Neville announced.

Tom leaned back in his chair, his hand rubbing vaguely at his neck."I wouldn't say that makes me a natural. I practice," he returned lightly.

"As if," Weasley interrupted. "I don't ever remember seeing you work on that Switching Spell."

"Me neither," Neville shrugged.

Then Potter asked the question Tom was sure each one of them had been thinking. "Is it possible to be a natural at flying?"

Weasley shrugged at him. "If it's in your blood."

"I bet Tom will master it instantly," Neville announced proudly. Neville's enthusiasm did not bother Tom; it was the way the other boys looked at Neville with that unmistakeably incredulous look.

Thankfully, Tom was saved the prospect of having to tone Neville down by the arrival of post.

Tom didn't get a chance to find out whether he was a natural at flying or not. Neville panicked on his broom before the beginning of the lesson and got his arm broken. Then, Potter decided he could win Neville over by being the lone one to stand up to Malfoy when he nicked Neville's Remembrall. Tom _could've _summoned it later on, but Potter decided to make a scene out of everything.

As he watched the boy do that too-natural catch at a roll off his broom, he hoped venomously that the stupid attention-seeking "hero" would be expelled. When McGonagall arrived, Tom leaned over to Hermione.

"Even heroes should follow the rules," he murmured scathingly. In the absence of a reply, Tom looked at her. He saw a glaze of moisture under her eyes as she clasped her hands together in emotion. He heard several other students speak up on Potter's behalf as McGonagall led him away, and Tom was disgusted.

Didn't they see he was a fool? Wasn't it obvious to Potter that Malfoy was out to get him expelled? At that thought, Tom glanced at Malfoy who was sniggering over with his friends.

Tom, with a grit to his teeth, walked over to the Slytherin group. Malfoy caught sight of him; a slight flash of fear crossed his features, which placated Tom somewhat. Malfoy's thuggish comrades stepped forward enclosing Malfoy in an alcove of their arms. Tom gave both of them a withering gaze. "You really are pathetic."

Malfoy sneered from behind the thicker boy. "It's his fault. I didn't ask Potter to follow after me."

"Nobody asked _you_ to be an inbred puppy without the brains to come up with some other way to gain respect."

"What are you talking about?" Malfoy spat.

Perhaps Tom just found it so easy to hate the boy, or perhaps it was the way his pointed features seemed to mock Tom. Either way, Tom felt a vicious anger bubbling up inside him for unexplained reasons. _Oh_, thought Tom, coming to the quick realisation, _he got rid of Potter before I could deal with him. Moreover, he didn't even do it properly._

This coming to mind, Tom paused and took a deep breath. "We'll see how this turns out. If you've caused any trouble, you'll be dealing with me personally."

Malfoy smirked. "What? You upset 'cause your Gryffindor hero's going to be expelled?"

Tom thought on this for a moment, then leaning forward, he muttered coldly. "Yes, actually. The 'Gryffindor hero' happened to be _my_ personal project."

They both were very well-aware that they had acquired an audience now with all the Slytherins and Gryffindors bunched around. He knew that they had not been able to hear his last words; however, they shifted closer to hear.

Malfoy seemed to preen in the presence of this sudden attention, as he had stepped forward to meet Tom's look with a new sneer. "I guess I can understand why you're looking out for him. Orphans stick together after all or so I hear. You're an orphan…you don't even have a surname, do you? What, mummy couldn't live long enough to tell you who-"

No thought to take out his wand occurred to him, but before Malfoy could complete his sentence, Tom felt a bolt of energy rush through him like anger, and Malfoy stumbled back, his heel tripping on his robes. He fell ungracefully to the muddy grass, his eyes wet with pain. He looked up at Tom, and his whole countenance changed, his sneer was gone, replaced with raw terror.

_I could make you bleed_, Tom wanted to hiss at him, but he knew the other students would hear him so he bent down quickly as if to check whether the other boy was all right. Instead, he bent his head near Malfoy's ear before the other boy could scramble away. "I know how to make you hurt if I want to. Don't give me a reason to do so."

He straightened, and was not perturbed at the presence of more than twenty pairs of eyes fixed on him. Soon, they would know _he_ was their hero. It would be easier, after all, now that Potter was out of the picture.

* * *

One could imagine Tom's complete bitter astonishment at dinner that evening when he sat at the table only to find Weasley chatting, gesturing as Potter shovelled food into his mouth. Potter seemed in an exuberant mood as he nodded when Weasley asked a question or broke into careless laughter at Weasley's remarks. 

Hermione saw his expression. "It seems Harry's on the Quidditch team now."

Finnigan, hearing this, shook his head ruefully. "Looks like you're not the only one who's a natural, eh Tom?"

Tom found he had to use all his will power not to glare at Finnigan. He stood up.

"Where are you going?" Hermione exclaimed."

Tom thought a moment. "I'm going to see Neville," he replied in a decisive manner.

Tom went first to the library and sat there for a long time, convincing himself that he wanted to read. By the time Tom finally went to see Neville that evening, it was clear that all the First and Second years had heard about his episodic rage outside during Flying Lessons. It disturbed Tom greatly because this also meant that Potter had heard. He didn't want Potter to think that he was one of his naïve followers; however, this particular brand of gossip was his sure way of giving Potter that impression.

"It's really cool how you can do so much wandless magic. I saw what you did to Malfoy on the train, and now outside. How do you do it?"

Tom was barely listening. He was trying to figure out a way in which to reverse what had happened. It was a while before he realised Neville was giving him a bewildered look. He sat up with a smile. "How's your arm?"

Neville gave a half-shrug. "You already asked that…but yeah, it's fine," he replied. "Madam Pomfrey should be here in a moment to give me that awful tonic. You don't have to wait; you might get in trouble for being out so late."

Tom shifted in his seat, thinking up strategy after strategy whilst none of them seemed like quite enough. "No, I'll stay."

Tom did not miss Neville's smile.

It was when they were about to go to Gryffindor tower that Tom realised he had never been out of the dormitory this late. The stone hallways were empty and the only thing he could hear was the distant sound of the evening breeze sneaking in through the cracks. The darkness of Hogwarts at night was too enticing. Tom bet, in his head, that he could discover a thousand things about this ancient castle within a week, were he only given the right amount of time and space. He saw that it was night that offered the most tempting time.

He stopped walking, and naturally, Neville stopped and looked back at him. "What's up?"

"I forgot _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ in the library," he returned, ensuring that his tone was vague and thoughtful.

"Oh, isn't it a bit late? I'm a little worried about the ghosts. They wander around at night."

Tom was already backing away. "Oh? Then you go on ahead. The tower isn't far, and it's easier not to get caught if there's just one of us."

Neville seemed strongly reluctant. "Oh…OK. I'll see you in the dorm, then."

He had already rounded the corner. Just moving gave Tom the feeling of purpose, as if he were on his way to do something. He could feel all his ideas burning up, and soon he would know exactly why he wanted to be out here at night. His mind was going over and over the same concepts repeatedly, and he slowly began to murmur. "Voldemort….Voldemort…Harry Potter…Potter…"

Then, it was easy, and he was looking for something; something that Potter was looking for, something that would convince a weakened Voldemort to return here while possessing the Boy-Who-Lived. His heart was racing at his intuitive findings, and he kept walking briskly, neither minding his footfalls nor his way. He was only aware that he was somewhere heading towards the Charms corridor.

Then he heard voices.

"Malfoy tricked you! You realise that, don't you? He was never going to meet you- Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off."

Tom was all too familiar with the loud, exasperated manner in which Hermione enlightened others; however, it was on this occasion that she sounded a lot more aggravated. Curious, he stepped through the door.

All four figures froze, and Tom stared at them for a while in astonishment. He was looking at the startled, shaken faces of Potter, Weasley, Hermione, and Neville.

"Tom?" Hermione gasped in half-relief, half-incredulity.

He stood there, his hand still on the knob. "_What_ are you lot doing here?"

Now that he had had time to register their presence, he could see just exactly how much Hermione was aggravated. She let out a huff of disgust, and Tom felt like smiling at her.

She pointed at Weasley and Potter. "These two thought it would be clever of them to accept a challenge from Malfoy, who tipped Filch off. Now we're trying to avoid expulsion due to _their _stupidity!"

Weasley appeared just as red-faced as she was. "_No one_ asked you to follow along!"

Tom ignored this, and looked at Neville. "Neville?" he asked, not surprised, but still curious.

Neville sighed. "I went back to the dormitory like I said I would, but I'd forgotten the password. This lot came along, and I didn't want to be left alone…"

Tom opened his mouth to tell them exactly what he thought of this series of events when Potter interrupted rudely. "Look, we don't have the time, all right? We have to get out of here, and fast!"

That was when Peeves swooped in.

The conclusion to their reaction was that Tom thought not only Potter, but Weasley, Neville, and Hermione were inexcusably idiotic. It was for all these people that Tom found himself facing the undignified prospect of tearing his way down the corridor after Potter, trying to avoid Filch and his foul cat.

The door at the end of the corridor was locked. Tom didn't have his wand, and his state of mind wouldn't allow him to open the door on command. Hermione shoved all of them aside and unlocked the door quickly. Potter, Weasley, and Hermione pressed their ears against the door, listening for Filch. Tom glanced at Neville, who was looking mad with panic. Now that was too much, he couldn't really be that frightened over being caught…

Absently, he followed Neville's gaze up, and up to the most horrific thing he had ever seen in his life. His heart stopped, and had he not covered his mouth with his fist, he might have shouted. Neville whirled around and began tugging furiously on Potter's arm. Tom didn't dare move.

Even dogs of enormous size in the Muggleworld could be intimidating, but a gigantic dog with three heads! His gaze swept over the creature, from its wide, blood-shot eyes, its quivering, wet noses breathing hot bursts of air, to its huge, claw-like paws scratching at the wooden trapdoor beneath it. It took Tom three breaths of air to regain his composure before he whirled around as well. By that time, Potter had already wrenched the door open, and the four others were careening back to the dormitory.

When they reached the common room, Tom didn't sit. He felt cold and his insides were still shaking. Tom was not often frightened, and shock very rarely bothered him, but that had been a truly horrible experience. His fear quickly turned to irritation. He glared at each one of them, daring them to remind him how his fear had made him useless.

No one, however, was paying him the least bit of attention.

"What's a dog like that doing there?!" Weasley gasped incredulously.

Hermione, who had been seated, drawing great gasps of air, rounded on him. "You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you? Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

Potter opened his mouth to say something, but Tom broke in speculatively. "The trapdoor." His mind was racing suddenly, and he needed to do some research for the sake of confirmation. "It is protecting something…from…." He absently looked at Potter, who, Tom was certain, looked increasingly uneasy. _Whatever it is_, Tom calculated, _he knows where it's hidden._ He had very little time, then. He could _not_ allow Potter to get close to that thing, whatever it was. Tom feigned sudden obliviousness as he looked away at Hermione, who had been watching him with a funny look on her face.

Her expression smoothed as she quickly turned away."Yes, well…" Her temper was back again as she faced Weasley and Potter. "I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed – or worse expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed. Good night, Tom."

He gave her a vague nod, and he knew Potter was still looking at him. He resisted the urge to upbraid him because what was the use? Potter appeared to be an excellent actor; his apparent cluelessness in the face of this new development was pristine. Tom frowned, and headed up the stairs.

Two could very well play at that game.

* * *

A/N- I just want to take this opportunity to thank all the reviewers and give a bit of sentimental smile to those who favourited or even put this on alert. You are one of the few reasons I am still at this. Don't hesitate to drop me a line whenever a certain concept is brought to attention and it either irritates or inspires. Thanks once more. 


	4. Chapter Three

_**A/N- I just want to thank all my readers and reviewers. I love this fic, and am beginning to fall deeper in love with the characters which seem very much mine at times, and its thanks to your encouragement. I do love you all. Oh, if I don't get to your direct questions immediately, know that this is only because I do not want to be the bearer of spoilers. Take care!

* * *

**_

_**-Time Or Manner-**_

**Chapter Three**

It seemed that Hermione had harboured no interest in what was concealed beneath that horrible animal. Taking a cue from her, Tom decided to feign disinterest himself. So the next morning when he sat down at their table in the Great Hall, he was prepared when Weasley leaned with an air of conspiracy.

"Last night was mad, wasn't it?" the red-head asked, seeming to think the episode had made them friends.

Tom set his eyes on the boy before glancing furtively at Potter, who was looking back at him. Tom turned away. "I don't think 'mad' does much justice to what happened yesterday."

Weasley seemed to find this funny. "Harry and I thought the whole thing was brilliant! We were wondering what you think is under that door."

Tom froze. It was obvious that Potter was executing a strategy to see how much he knew. He wouldn't interrogate him directly, but he would use his subordinate to casually question him. Tom looked back at Weasley, searching his eyes for a possible hint of deception. Weasley was as transparent as glass; it was possible that Potter wasn't completely informing him, which, in Tom's opinion, was a good idea. Tom had two choices: either to show interest, but offer no information, or to pretend to be curious but allow Potter to see that he had in fact a pretty good idea as to what was going on.

His pride made him want Potter to know how easily he had seen through him, but it just wouldn't be sensible to make his intentions too obvious. It was imperative that he keep everything close to his chest. So, with a pale smile, he nodded at Weasley. "I _did_ wonder what was there, but I've been thinking about it and it seems best if we don't get involved." He refused to look at Potter with his next words. "I can imagine students who take too much interest in business much bigger than they are would attract the attention of a few suspicious onlookers."

Potter sat forward, appearing to want to catch his eye. Tom gave an inward sigh and looked at the boy. "The thing is, T-Tom. I might _know_ what's in there. At least, I know where they once kept it and how big it is."

Tom was appalled. What did Potter want from him? Was he trying to get him interested? Could it even be possible that Potter wanted to _recruit _him? He stared at those green eyes for a long moment. "Okay," he heard himself breathing after a minute.

Potter nodded. He was looking at him with an expression like expectation. "It's no bigger than two inches. I was there when Dumbledore had the thing moved. It was originally in Gringotts, and someone broke into that same vault the same afternoon after the thing was brought here."

It seemed a deep and unsurprising frustration entered Tom just then. "Why are you telling me this?" he demanded.

Potter just looked surprised, but Weasley seemed seriously affronted. "Look, Harry just thought you'd be interested. You don't need to be all snotty about it," he snapped.

Tom frowned at him. "I just don't care to waste my time listening to conclusions _you_ know very little about."

"And do you know any better?" Potter's voice was quiet, questioning, and unassuming, but this annoyed Tom a great deal.

He wanted to throw the accusation right in his face and watch him quake in the light of his discovery. He wanted Potter to know how he was on to him; that he was going to stop him at all costs, and that the fame Potter claimed so unjustly would be his. He stared irritably for a long time at Potter, ignoring Weasley's glare, just absorbing that dark gaze. As usual, that irritating feeling that he'd overlooked something returned; a feeling that if he thought hard enough and if he looked at Potter long enough, he would find a hidden truth revealed. But the boy's eyes revealed nothing, and Tom felt his theories _must _be correct.

"Nothing," Tom said, dragging his eyes away from the answer that was too obvious to accept. "I never said I knew anything."

* * *

By mid-October, Tom had all of _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ memorised, and he would often run through his mind certain quotes from the book. He could frequently be found in the library seated next to Hermione as he perused companion articles to the subject. Madame Pince saw him so often, and liked his quiet and respectable way of studying that there had not been much of an issue against his wanderings towards the Restricted Section where he picked up many an article from the other point of view. He browsed through books written by former Death Eaters, journals on the relation between earlier Dark wizards and Voldemort, and detailed discussions on the layout of Gringotts. He was proud enough to assume that he had evaded detection on his biased reading material until Hermione leaned over the small table one evening after dinner.

"How does _Memories of Shadow: a Journal of Shady Recollection_ relate to chapter three?" she asked curiously looking down at his book.

Tom had a lie ready. "The Thinning Charm is said to have been used in Dark Circles, and I want to know just how. Perhaps that is something to be included in our next essay."

Hermione seemed appeased. "I don't suppose it will hurt to integrate _some_ legend along with it. I wonder if Professor McGonagall will approve..."

"There's only one way to find out," he murmured, returning to his book.

"But Tom," Hermione pressed, reaching past him again. "_Dark Objects of Value_ can't possibly have to do with Transfiguration. Or even _Gringotts Banking: Goblin Security_!"

Tom laid his quill down slowly, his back rigid as he turned carefully to look at Hermione. She stared back at him, her lips parted, and her front teeth touching her bottom lip in an expression of enthrallment. He valued her company because she was intelligent. Also, because she didn't have any friends, he could sway her opinion against anyone. Yet, in her intelligence, she saw what Neville would never see, and in her friendless state, she pushed and pushed until Tom could mercifully have ended her life by asphyxiation rather than by impalement. He decided that she needed to be distracted.

He smiled at her, warm and friendly so that his eyes slightly squinted. He had practiced this smile earlier, and he was certain it was very congenial. "Hermione…" he began slowly.

"What is it?" she replied, smiling back.

"I don't know if I should tell you. I don't want to hurt your feelings."

She leaned back from reaching across him, and settled her narrow brown gaze on him. "Get hurt? What are you talking about?"

"I thought it would be better if I told you. It's just… the others have been saying things…things I could hardly repeat. Basically, they're saying you're a know-it-all."

Her mouth fell open a little. "Wh-what do you mean?"

_Empathy_. He wanted his sigh to sound like empathy. "I know it sounds impossible, but I heard the other girls in our year saying so. They said you're always talking about books, reading, and things. They hate you for it."

Her expression was blank, and for a moment, Tom thought that this is what she would have looked like had she been a little less intelligent.

"Hate me? B-but why? I never-I didn't…."

He rested his arms over the table, looking at his hands. "No, you didn't do anything to them. We've both been very nice to everyone, and then they talk about us behind our backs."

She seemed to be thinking about this for awhile.

"It's obvious they're jealous, aren't they?" he said quietly. "At least, I know who _really_ is."

Her little hands were white as she clenched them around her quill. "Who?" It wasn't louder than a whisper.

Tom wondered if she'd buy it, but he knew that if he put it the right way, he would have one more on his side. "Doesn't it seem unfair that Potter breaks rule after rule, yet is so highly regarded? Don't you think that's a bit strange?"

She didn't reply, but he knew she was listening.

"He revels in that attention, but he hates when others steal his limelight. That's why he and Weasley are so mean to you."

She bit her lip quickly. "You think that's what it is? I wondered…."

"Watch Potter closely. You'll notice what I mean," he replied. "You've only ever wanted to help them, am I right in saying so?"

"Y-yes. Just today when Harry got his broomstick, I…oh! That can't be it! Why would Harry think that way?" Tom watched with detached interest as she lowered her head into her hands, her fingers tangling in her own messy hair.

"Hermione," he whispered quickly, as if relating a secret. "I think there's something extremely wrong about Potter. And if the Hero of the Wizarding World has something wrong with him, then we should be careful about trusting him, right?"

She raised her head again, her eyes still alert. Tom knew this was going to be difficult. "But Harry's not expected to do anything any longer. You-Know-Who is gone!"

"You think so?" he asked, with just enough intrigue in his tone.

Hermione's mouth opened to reply, but it was just at that moment that Neville rounded the corner of a bookshelf. "Hullo, Tom," he began, immediately sitting down. Tom resumed his usual expression of polite interest as Neville looked at the two of them. Tom glanced at Hermione, whom he was pleased to see, looked pale and anxious.

"You all right, Hermione?" Neville inquired worriedly.

She sat up, and quickly offered a faint smile. "Yes, I was just thinking about something." She returned to the book she was reading. Tom watched her at this for a moment. He was pleased to see that he had clearly distracted her as well as insured that she would not be pulled into Potter's wealth of blind well-wishers. He turned to face Neville again, closing his book.

Neville quickly reached into his bag for his _Standard Book of Spells: Grade One._ "I was able to do the composition on the Thinning Charms, but you told me that we would be doing the Levitation Charm in a week. You have to help me, Tom. There's no way I'll be able to learn it. The instructions on page two hundred-thirty five aren't that clear."

Tom opened his notebook. "You don't have to worry, Neville. There's no one else in the class who has even looked at the chapter beside Hermione and me. By the time next week arrives, you'll be able to do it just as well as we can."

This was usually Hermione's cue to remark how nice a person Tom was. Tom found he did like that. But Hermione only burrowed deeper in her book, and he frowned in her direction. It was an unfortunate and displeasing fact to him that he had distracted her a little too much.

"All right, so let me see…" Neville sighed, chewing on his quill. "The incantation for the Levitation Charm is '_Wingardium Leviosa_'. The theory of Levitation charms is 'the control of atomic matter surrounding the object of concentration in an effort to infuse force into each particle.' That doesn't mean anything to me!" He pulled out his wand, setting down his quill. "_Wingardium Leviosa_!"

Tom was appalled to notice that Neville had accidentally jabbed the wand at a bookshelf behind Hermione. The spell took obnoxious effect and three books shot high into the air. Neville's disbelief was evident as his mouth fell open, and he dropped the wand. This caused the three books to plummet down straight at Hermione.

She wasn't looking, and she should have been paying attention, but she wasn't, and Tom knew what would happen before it could, and he found he didn't at all like the idea. He drew his wand, not knowing the words, but knowing precisely what he wanted done.

As those books seized their angry journey and floated calmly above Hermione's head, Tom was furious. He whirled on Neville, his eyes blazing. "What were you thinking, you _unbelievably_ mindless idiot?!"

Hermione got up from her chair abruptly, staring in surprise at the books. Neville stared at Tom, his face bloodless with fear and shock, and Tom was still poised, his wand raised with his angry gaze fixed on Neville. A very strange and unfamiliar moment of awkwardness fell upon them and Hermione stepped forward, her hand moving to Tom's arm. Before her fingertips could so much as brush his sleeve, he jerked away and the books fell to the floor with a sudden cacophony of thumps. Neville quietly picked up his things and brushed past Tom as he left the library in a hurry.

It was when Hermione carefully and slowly said, "Tom?" that Tom realised that he was breathing a little heavily. He lowered his wand, thinking how incredible it was that he had been left with the most useless of them all for a companion. Neville was clearly a trying subject, and though Tom sensed a great deal of loyalty in him, he did not care to have to put up with such incompetence.

Now certain that Tom was all right, Hermione was clearly angry. "You didn't have to _shout_ at him," she hissed because Hermione, being sensible, still remembered they were in a library.

He turned on her in incredulity. "If_ you_ don't want anyone to be worried about you, then pay more attention to your surroundings!" he spat back.

"That doesn't even make sense! _You're_ the one dangling information over Nevilles head, _lording _it over him! As if there wasn't opportunity for you to actually help him learn how to _really_ learn!"

Tom could have hit her. _Lording it over him? Doesn't she see that Neville is getting better because of me?_ Instead he used great self-control on that trigger of magic that would have done much worse. He sneered instead. "As if you knew how!"

She began collecting her books, red-faced and furious. "Any idiot could see it, if you actually took the time to observe _him_ rather than burying your nose in Dark Arts books all day long. Clearly, I _do_ know how; you can't lose your temper when things don't go the way you'd like them to, and I don't believe what you said earlier about Harry!"

Tom stared after her in disbelief as she rushed from the library.

* * *

Tom had just braved all of six minutes in the company of the other boys, and his head ached. It had put his companionship with Neville in perspective. When Tom went upstairs, Neville was alone in the dormitory, pouring dead flies into Trevor's box, his round face focussed intently on the toad's bleary yellow gaze. Tom looked at Trevor, who slipped a tongue-full of flies into his mouth, croaking lethargically.

What was it Neville could really do on his own besides fumble things up completely? Why did it seem there was nothing, no promise in him? Tom looked at him often, and he never felt any potential, but for the fact that he could probably at some point, make Neville do whatever he wanted. Hermione's words came back to him then. _You're the one dangling information over Neville's head, _lording _it over him_. But that had been the point, hadn't it? He knew what people liked to see in other people. He had learned that at an early age just from attending school. Teachers awarded meaningless papery-gold stars, coloured stickers, tiny novelties, which, in the long run meant nothing, yet the true concept behind it was the merit for the ego: the child's ego. In the end, it spurred a sense of separation between the classes of student. There would be those whose egos were repeatedly rewarded due to their hunger for recognition, while the others could only watch, wondering what I felt like, wondering why it was so difficult to just get the teacher to look at them like that.

Neville was of the second class most definitely. Tom's initial theory had been that if he were to have Neville awarded the metaphorical coloured stickers a few times, Neville would take the lead and begin to _need_them. In so doing, Tom would create a fighting heart in him to batter down Nevilles unfortunate lack of confidence. It appeared he had miscalculated.

"Tom?"

His thoughts settled as he looked again at Neville, who was now seated on the edge of his bed, his corduroyed legs swinging. That round face had a lot of simple honesty and his feelings were there for Tom to pick apart. Feeling ridiculous, Tom raised his chin an inch. "Your attempt at the Levitation Charm this afternoon was, obviously, a disaster. I am going to help you practice so that an accident like that will not happen again."

Neville looked at him with some unease, but Tom pressed on, looking out the window so as not to meet that newly distrustful gaze. "It won't be as hard as you think. We'll ignore the theory for now then work on the mechanics of it-"

"Why?"

His gaze snapped to Neville, who didn't blink. "Why?" he echoed softly, looking askance at the other boy.

Neville stood up from his perch, quickly stashing Trevor's meal back in his trunk. "Yes. Why? I-I just don't understand. "

Tom decided to stop standing at the doorway because it made him feel cornered. He moved forward and seated himself on his own bed as Neville remained where he was, holding the post of his bed and looking down at Tom like he was some kind of otherworldly being he was trying hard to comprehend.

Tom narrowed his eyes at him. "What don't you understand?"

"You; why do you want to help me? You seem like you want to help me, but...sometimes I feel like..."

"What? You feel like what?"

"Like we're pretending, or something, but I don't know what."

"Pretending?" Tom whispered, looking down. "Pretending what?"

"I don't know!" Neville burst out, stepping forward. "That's the problem. I don't know why it feels so weird to be your friend; why I still feel alone!"

Tom paused; amazed that Neville could actually say that. Neville took his expression to mean injury and quickly back-tracked. "You're really nice and everything, but you seem like you're angry about something, and I'm worried it's me."

He didn't know what to say to that. Yet, he had to rectify things. "You don't understand, Neville. We're friends. Friends help each other right?" He searched quickly for the right words. "Maybe your friend will get angry at you for mistakes and other things, but you can still choose to be friends. Don't you see? I chose you because you think the way I do. It's why we can get along. Let me know when you feel alone...and...and I'll fix things. I can always fix things like that, so you don't have to worry."

There was a very loaded silence as Neville gazed at Tom warily.

"Okay," he finally said quietly.

Tom found he had to really force his next smile as he folded his arms and replied, "Good."

* * *

"Today, we shall be learning the Levitation Spell, which I know you've all been anticipating since the very beginning," Flitwick squeaked, his diminutive person bobbing about the room as he handed out feathers. "I will be pairing you up so that you can help each other with your formation, and pronunciation."

Tom shot Neville a smirk, and he was pleased to see Neville manage a healthy one of his own. He would have looked at Hermione as well were it not for the fact that Hermione had been refusing to speak to him since the library incident, which, Tom thought, must not have been very hard as she seemed to be refusing to speak to Potter, Weasley, and everyone else who had crossed her within the last month. Tom almost felt sorry that she was not aware of how few people she would be on speaking terms with by the end of the year.

"Now for those of you who checked the index in the text for your reading assignment, you will have seen that the mechanics of the spell is mostly in the manner with which you use your wand. An incorrect movement of the arm can cause drastic effects!" Flitwick continued. "Now, you two together and you-Weasley over there with Miss Granger, yes-and Neville...ah yes, I see you've...erm-Mr. Burrows, please move over to the front and work with Mr. Dribs. You've all got your partners? Excellent! Now, begin practicing. The incantation is _Wingardium Leviosa! _Swish and flick!"

Tom shook his head suddenly at Neville who had his wand ready to execute the spell with enthusiasm. "Wait," he muttered, as the other students began to practice. Tom looked around at Hermione, who had been paired with Weasley. She looked bitter and vengeful whilst Weasley's expression matched hers.

"Look, let's just get this over with," Weasley snapped, pulling out his wand and pointing it at his feather. "_Wingardium Leviosa!" _He swished and flicked, but to no avail. "_Wingardium Le_vi_osa!" _Tom felt the corners of his mouth twitch as the expression on Hermione's face grew more strained. As much as she pretended she didn't believe what Tom said, Tom knew that she was doing all her best to act as if she didn't care that she had read more or knew more. It was nearly comical watching her eyes narrow and her teeth grit.

"Tom? What do you want me to do?" Neville murmured from behind him. "I can handle the feather! You had me floating books last night!"

"I know," he hissed back, trying not to reveal his irritability at someone interrupting this new development. "It's not the feather I want you to levitate. Remember how I told you anyone would be able to learn to float tinier things. We have to give them a show!"

Neville, heartened, nodded his head vigorously. He sat back patiently, waiting for Tom's word.

Finally...

"_What does it take to get through to you? You're saying it WRONG! Just read the text and it will tell you! Is that so difficult?! It's Wingardium Leviosa! The 'gar' is much longer and take your emphasis off the 'i'! Do you not get that?! Wingardium Leviosa!_"

Several heads turned to join Tom in gazing at Hermione, who was breathing heavily and glaring with venom at Weasley. Weasley's expression went from shock to anger quite quickly. "Oh yeah? _You_ do it, then, if you're so clever!"

It was perfect. Flitwick was coming their way, and Hermione was already rolling up the sleeves of her robe with relish. She swished and flicked and said her incantation. Tom didn't mind that her feather rose four feet in the air above their heads; he turned to Neville quickly.

"The two desks in the front row on the count of three," he said.

Neville nodded, raising his wand just as the Professor made his way towards their chairs. Flitwick looked up at Hermione's feather and his miniaturized features twisted up in delight. He had just opened his mouth in exclamation when Tom whispered "three" and Flitwick had to turn at a large clatter.

Tom stood in his seat, his wand raised, and his chin lifted with Neville standing right beside him, his own wand poised. And in the front of the classroom, two desks had risen to the ceiling.

"Oh! Brilliant! Look at that, both Neville and Tom has done it! With desks too; that's fourth year magic, isn't it? Oh, you've been practicing, haven't you?"

Feeling overtly pleased, Tom nodded.

"Take twenty points for Gryffindor, Tom and Neville," Flitwick gasped.

It appeared that in the little professor's excitement, he had quite forgotten to by-pass Tom's presence. Flitwick had looked him right in the eye as he awarded the twenty points. Slowly, Tom signalled to Neville to let the desks down, and as they settled to the floor, the room was silent.

Flitwick was still beaming. "And you, Neville; I've never seen such improvement in a student within such a short time. What's happened?"

Neville straightened his shoulders like Tom had told him to as he replied carefully, "I am capable of anything; there is no reason to think I can't do it."

As Flitwick's smile faltered, Tom congratulated himself on a job well done. He was in such good spirits that he didn't mind when Hermione approached him after class, her expression a little sheepish. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "I shouldn't have said what I said. I can see you're really trying to help him."

"Of course I am," he replied stolidly, as they began walking into the crowded corridor, but he smiled at her.

She smiled back as Neville sped up to join them. "At least tonight's the Hallowe'en feast," she went on, "I've heard from Lavender Brown that they serve all sorts of desserts."

"I got a look at the decorations, and they're really great!" Neville piped up.

There was a pause as the rush of students pressed them against the other year-mates. The resigned and bitter part of Tom was not surprised when he was nearly ploughed into Potter. He caught himself just in time, but he did manage to catch their conversation.

"A bunch of show-offs, the lot of them. Especially _her_," Weasley was snarling in Potter's direction. "Mad little know-it-all, that she is. It's no wonder no one can stand her. She's a nightmare, honestly."

Tom quickly turned to see if Hermione had been fortunate enough to miss all that, but there was no mistaking the expression on her face when Tom looked at her. She was staring at Weasley with something like despair before her eyes met Tom's.

"Well, you were right, weren't you?" she began, her voice trembling. Finally, unable to suppress whatever it was that seemed to climbing up her throat, she ran past Potter and Weasley down the hallway a hiccough echoing behind her even in that horridly noisy crowd.

Neville, who had been oblivious to all this as he stepped quickly around a group of Seventh Years, turned and looked around. "What happened to Hermione?"

Tom sighed, and took a moment to marvel at how gifted he must be to be able to predict and sense things with such precision. It was human nature to hate those better than you. That's why it never bothered Tom when someone hated him with such venom; it was merely a confirmation that he was far better than they were. This idea often pleased him during moments like these.

The afternoon passed, and Tom didn't see her again. He was pleased because she had seen that he had been completely right, but he was slightly vexed because she was wasting time sulking over the issue. He was now considering informing her that he intended to deal with Weasley in a fitting manner, if he only knew where she was. It was time for the Hallowe'en feast too; he assumed she would turn up in time. When he was upset, he much preferred to be alone and he could sympathise.

Now Tom had never really taken to Professor Quirrell. In all honesty, Quirrell was the one he liked least of all the teachers. He was twitchy and he exuded a strange familiar fume, and apart from avoiding him like the rest of the teachers, Tom often caught Quirrell gazing at him, rapt with something like wonder. Tom ignored the man, and often skipped his classes. However, it was not an easy thing to dismiss a man who pelts his way into the Great Hall, screaming the words, "Troll! In the dungeon!!!"

Several students began to yell, and Dumbledore had to suppress the pandemonium. Tom watched Quirrell lying unconscious on the floor with an expression of absent interest. Neville grabbed his arm, and he raised an eyebrow at him. "We have to follow Percy, Tom."

He nodded and got up, looking around the Great Hall at the useless panic on the other students faces. He was just heading up the stairs after Neville when something caught his eye. He squinted. Off toward the Hufflepuff corridor, Tom saw Potter and Weasley sneaking off. What was Potter up to? As he hesitated on the steps, he gripped the banister. Then, it hit him. Potter had successfully distracted the whole school so as to head to the third-floor corridor. He had to think fast.

"Neville!" he hissed.

Neville turned.

"Go on upstairs. I have something to take care of."

"What? But there's a troll in the school!"

"Shut up! Just go upstairs. This won't take long!"

Neville hesitated, but at Tom's expression, he gave a half-shrug and continued on up the stairs.

Tom whirled around and made to blend with a group of Third Year Hufflepuffs. He _was_ tall enough, anyway. He nearly missed Potter as a flash of black ducked around a corner. He followed after them. When he turned the corner, they were both crouched behind a statue, watching something and muttering to each other. Tom stepped back, and watched the scene warily.He saw the troll just as a horrible smell filled the hallway. It wandered up the hall and stopped near a doorway. Pausing in some simple form of contemplation, it went inside.

Potter suddenly bounded forward and locked the door, casting the key to the floor. Then, not pausing a moment, they both turned around and ran straight towards Tom's place of hiding. Tom, having watched with obvious confusion, stared and was not in a position to move as Potter crashed into him. They both slammed to the floor and Potter's head knocked against his. They both cried out in pain, and just as they scrambled away from each other, a high, terrified scream filled the hallway. It suddenly occurred to Tom that Potter had just locked the troll in the girls' toilet- and someone was trapped inside with it.

Flinching at the sting on the side of his head, Tom pulled his wand out quickly from his robes and pointed it at Potter. "Don't move!" he snarled at him, getting up. Potter was still wincing from the strike to his forehead, and Weasley started forward. "What are you doing?!" he demanded.

"Who've you locked in there?" Tom shot back at them.

Potter got up, looking dazed. "It's Hermione," he slurred, pushing past Tom in the effort at heading towards the door. Not thinking, Tom tripped him, but Potter only stumbled a bit as he rushed back to the door. Tom and Weasley careened after him towards the girl's toilet. Potter grabbed the key and unlocked the door, and Tom stepped back in case Potter had any intention of locking him in there as well.Without any hesitation, Potter swept inside drawing his wand.

Tom followed, thoroughly nonplussed as to what was going on. It didn't help that his head was throbbing. He raised his wand regardless as he pushed inside past Weasley.

It _was_ Hermione.

Tom looked on in terrible shock as the troll began advancing on her, knocking sinks to the floor in a dim-witted fury. Not sure what to do just then, he looked at Potter who turned on him and yelled, "Confuse it!"

Tom ran for the creature, his wand raised. Ducking, he slid under the troll's legs and hit the wall beside Hermione. She was too scared to speak, but only looked at him in surprise. Potter threw a faucet at the thing, and as it turned away to go after the boy-hero, Tom hauled Hermione to her feet, and made to pull her towards the door, but she was frozen stock still, mouthing wordlessly at the sight the troll made lumbering after Potter.

Weasley yelled and threw something. The troll rounded on him with a roar that shook the room, and the red head stumbled backward into a corner. A callous part of Tom's mind focussed on getting to the door, but as he moved his feet slipped in the water, and before he could right himself, he was to be found sliding towards the monster at top speed. His feet struck the Troll's ankle, and the Troll, at hearing the thumping noise turned. The troll's expression of annoyance might have been comical under other circumstances, but Tom's blood froze as it raised its club overhead and swung it straight down at him. Tom could only raise his arm in defiance as the Troll's club swung his way.

When the expected impact didn't occur, Tom opened one eye. Potter was dangling helplessly from the troll's shoulders with his wand stuck up the thing's nose. The troll began to howl with pain as it flailed and tried to strike at him. Potter looked desperate, Hermione had sunk to the floor in complete terror, and Weasley was just looking on with a horrified expression.

Tom reached for his wand, but realised that he'd dropped it when he'd fallen. Narrowly avoiding the troll's pounding footsteps near him, he scrambled back to where Hermione was kneeling. He had only just touched his wand when he heard the most remarkable thing.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!"_

He turned to see Weasley brandishing his wand, whilst levitating the monster's club above its head. And like Neville, Weasley's shock made him forget the spell and the club crashed down on the beast's head sending Potter flying to the other end of the room and another resounding crash was heard as the troll slammed to the floor.

Tom couldn't stop shaking, and for this he was unimaginably angry. He reached for his wand, his hand trembling as he looked back at the mass of green lying there. Potter was now on his feet, shaking just as much and Weasley was still frozen in shock from what he had done.

"Is it dead?" Hermione whispered.

"I don't think so," Potter returned, but Tom wasn't about to let him brush this situation off so easily.

"Who cares if it's dead? Why did you lock her in here with it?" he demanded, getting to his feet.

Hermione looked puzzled.

"I didn't _know _she was in here!" Potter shot back at him, most likely still angry about being tripped up earlier. He turned away and fetched his wand from the unconscious troll's nose.

"It brings to mind the question as to why you were following us, Tom," Weasley spoke up angrily. "This isn't the first time you've shown up suddenly where you shouldn't have been."

Tom glared at him, thoroughly disgusted. "Don't get the wrong idea, Weasel! It's obvious you're up to something far worse."

Potter's head snapped up to reply, but they were interrupted by a sudden slamming and loud footsteps.

Hardly a moment passed before McGonagall burst in along with Snape and Quirrell. Quirrell reacted as expected by offering a swoon at the sight of the troll. Tom realised that he really disliked that man. He looked away from Quirrell to McGonagall and Snape, who both looked as angry as could be. Tom wasn't worried, however; he only needed to tell them exactly what happened and it was likely that he would be exonerated, even along with Hermione.

"What on earth were you thinking of?" McGonagall gasped, her expression tight with cold fury. Tom realised that Snape was looking at him quite piercingly. He met his gaze proudly and unblinkingly. He really had nothing to hide at the moment, and to look away would most likely give Snape reason to believe that he had orchestrated the entire episode.

Tom slipped his wand in his pocket and faced McGonagall blandly, contemplating how best to make a convincing accusation that Potter had intentionally locked another student in a room with a large troll and then tried to conceal his guilt by pretending to rescue the aforementioned student.

He was thwarted by Hermione of all people. She stepped forward bravely, but spoke quietly when she said, "Please, Professor McGonagall- they were looking for me."

The shock on her face was nearly comical as she stared at Hermione. "Miss Granger!"

"I went looking for the troll because I-I thought I could deal with it on my own. You know, because I've read a lot about them."

An incredulous silence followed. Tom was staring in outrage at Hermione. _This is ridiculous! Why would she lie on their behalf?_ Hermione saw his expression and gave him a quick pleading look. His teeth grit together, and he stared at the wet stone floor in marble-like silence.

"If they hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. Tom distracted it, Harry stuck his wand up its nose, and Ron knocked it out with its own club. They didn't have time to come and fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived."

Tom listened to this with an all-consuming rage and he determinedly looked at the wall behind McGonagall's head. _How could she? What on earth had altered her view about those two? Were they not guilty of shunning her just four hours earlier? I don't understand how this could happen! Unless..._

Tom surreptitiously looked at Potter, whose expression was affected neutrality. There was an entire chapter in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ that addressed the Unforgiveable Curses. The Killing Curse and the Imperius had had Tom lying awake at night, cautiously watching Potter sleep just to make sure he wouldn't use one of those on Tom. He was ninety-nine percent certain that Potter had used Dark Magic on her. He _had_ to uncover the Dark Lord before the entire school was overtaken by the plot.

He stepped back against the wall as Hermione was ordered to the Common Room, and it occurred to Tom that he was beginning to hyperventilate. What had he gotten himself into? _No. I can't think like that. You can solve this; you can stop this._ _You just need to catch him at it; catch him doing something you can prove. _

"Mr...erm, Tom, I said you may go."

He jumped, startled out of his reverie. Snape, Quirrell, and McGonagall were looking at him with familiar expressions. Snape's was shrewd, McGonagall's was guarded, and Quirrell's was that same wonder. Not making eye contact with any of the professors, he left the room in a hurry.

* * *

"Why did you do it?!" 

Hermione frowned over her plate of pumpkin pie. "I _knew_ you were going to be horrible about it. I know it was wrong of me to lie, but they saved my life!"

Tom sat forward, ignoring his mincemeat. "He also locked you in there!"

"Why do you keep saying that?" Hermione sighed, spooning up a piece of her dessert and chewing thoughtfully.

"Because it's true!" he shot back at her. "I saw them. Potter watched the troll go in, and then he jumped forward and locked the door."

"It's possible that like Harry said, he didn't know I was in there," she returned quietly.

Aware that her calm made his tone sound aggravated, he quickly softened his voice. "It's also possible that he's fooled you somehow."

Hermione's expression after that became resolute, and Tom had to think about it for a moment as she said, "Look at him, Tom."

He followed her gaze to the temporary buffet table in the middle of Common Room where Potter stood. Percy Weasley handed him a slice of pumpkin pie, saying something amiable. Potter responded with a polite, but warm laugh, his expression absent, but happy.

"How can someone with such a personality do something like that? No one is that marvellous a liar," Hermione concluded.

He opened his mouth to disprove this fact. How it was easy for someone to pretend to like you, and how your belief in their charade might be satisfying to that person. Yet, his own familiarity with that pretence made him uncomfortable and although he knew Potter's deception ran deep, he decided there was no point in continuing the discussion.

* * *

As December loomed ever closer, the weather grew colder, and the fireplaces in Hogwarts blazed throughout the day. Hermione had found herself a clique, and no one seemed bothered that she was a walking encyclopaedia as she began to spend more time with Potter and Weasley.

It was only in the evenings that Tom would go to the library and find her already there, buried in her books. She would give him a brief smile before going back to her studies, and Tom was slightly pleased to see that she must certainly have been falling behind in her grades due to the two new influences on her life. She was staying up longer than she used to, and Tom came down to the Common Room often to find her there with her books open and her expression furrowed.

He shrugged this off.

It was at this point in time that Tom realised that whatever it was the large three-headed dog was guarding, it wasn't a newly-developed magical object. In the lexicon of all such items, Tom had learned that most newly developed magical objects were created and studied by the Ministry in the Department of Mysteries. This meant that the item in question was relatively old, and already past the phase of investigation, or even beyond the boundaries of research.

He concluded two things from this bit of knowledge. One was that the item was truly a powerful, unique thing, perhaps the only one of its kind in existence. The second was that, judging from the patterns he had construed from Voldemort's reign, the Dark Lord had made a habit of pursuing rare texts and seeking objects of power. In 1974, he was said to have stolen several unicorn horns from the Ministry as well as five or six ancient annals describing unused and discarded Dark Magicks. This meant that whatever new thing that Voldemort sought to acquire from the school through Potter must go above and beyond all his past acquisitions, and that led to Tom next theory: Potter's part in Voldemort's restoration.

Tom had frequently tried to put himself in the Dark Lord's position, and tried to channel Voldemort's way of thinking. At first, this experiment seemed extremely foolish as Tom could hardly derive the Evil Wizard's entire personality merely by having read about him from texts that were so blatantly biased. Yet, after he had tried to think in those terms for a while, he gradually began to understand.

His thoughts during those days mostly began with the words, "_If I were Voldemort..."_

And an idea had struck him one day when he contemplated how Voldemort's strategy of using Potter didn't make as much sense to him as it did when he first formulated his hypothesis, although it still seemed the only explanation. Voldemort's plans had after all come to nothing with his supposed death. "If I were Voldemort," he thought aloud, "I would have tried to find a way to stay alive, to live no matter what, so that I wouldn't have to go through the trouble of assuring my power." People would realise that I couldn't die, and fear me even more because I would be invincible.)

He smiled a little at this thought, but pushed it aside as a new revelation came upon him. "_What if Potter had not been among his plans; what if he had intended to kill the child, but since there were no witnesses, no one would have known if perhaps Potter's mother made an attempt on his life and he used this strategy to save himself_?" What that would mean is that Voldemort _definitely _wanted restoration and on top of that, immortality.

_What could possibly achieve both these things and is no bigger than two inches?_

Tom knew that Potter would talk to Hermione about him. Tom had made the foolish mistake of making his feelings over Potter all too clear. Yet, when he overheard the three of them talking one evening, he knew he had to do something soon before Potter tarnished his name completely.

He had stepped into the noisy and crowded Common Room with the intention of asking Hermione whether she had borrowed his notes from last week's Astronomy lecture when he saw her in her usual spot, seated with Potter and Weasley. Weasley's head was bent towards Potter, who was speaking rapidly and making frantic gestures. Hermione was looking at the two of them with something close to incredulity.

Tom stepped up near the fire beside a group of Second Years practicing their Charms and was just in time to hear Potter explain breathlessly, "You know what this means? He tried to get past that three-headed dog at Hallowe'en! That's where he was going when we saw him-he's after whatever it's guarding! And I'd bet my broomstick _he_ let that troll in, to create a diversion!"

Tom couldn't help it, he started back in alarm as Hermione's eyes widened and she insisted with a severe lack of conviction, "No-he wouldn't," she said. "I know he's not very nice, but he wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."

He didn't know what else he might have heard had he remained, but he knew he had heard entirely enough. Potter had set his plans in motion and he was near to convincing Hermione that he was the culprit of Potter's own actions.

He walked slowly back up to the dormitory, his face blank with thought. He had to think of something!

"Does she have the notes?" Neville asked as he entered.

He didn't reply as he seated himself on his bed, his mind whirring through different strategies he could take, but he found his mind wandering to the first and the most drastic. If Potter/Voldemort was determined to turn the entire school against the one whose mind he seemed to fail at controlling, then he would most likely succeed, which would restrict Tom's movements. He had to move and do something before Potter succeeded.

He had to find out what was under that dog, and he had to find out when Potter wanted to retrieve it.

* * *

It was the very reason why he did not attend the Quidditch match the next day.

Instead he was a lone figure at the end of a hallway, standing in front of the door to the Third Floor Corridor, his breath coming in slow deep intervals. Tom rested his hand on the doorknob, seeming to prepare himself mentally for what he would now face.

He had developed an idea as to how he might gain access to that trapdoor, and it required learning much more about the beast guarding it. Unfortunately from memory, Tom could not describe it beyond the fact that it was a black, drooling three-headed thing. He had to know precisely what the creature was and in so doing he would be able to know how to control it. After all, Tom had never had any problem with controlling the actions of an animal with the right stimulus.

In the distance, he could hear the cheers of a crowd and the wind rising, and he turned the door knob, and slipped in quickly.

Sleek, black fur, wide eyes of piercing red, each head full of a complete set of horribly sharp teeth. Tom's nerves shook his insides, but he stood steadfast against the door as the beast reared its head to pounce, and soon Tom would be nothing more than a bloody mass between its two sharp claw-like paws.

The sound of the door slamming behind him, and the dogs bark echoed through the castle. Tom leaned against the cold stone, sliding to a sitting position, and waiting for his heart to slow. That had been entirely too close, and he had nearly lost his presence of mind to leave the room as he had caught sight of that awful thing. His irrational reactions made him realise, though, that it was not the beast that frightened him, but the idea that he could have been killed within a second.

Still trying to regain his breath, he pulled from his pocket a small notebook and pen. He quickly noted the beast's appearance with a more detailed description of its fur colour, fangs, and size. And shaking, he pushed himself up from the floor and he ran upstairs to the library.

As he entered, Madame Pince gave him a knowing look as if to say that she knew he could never be so silly as to put a Quidditch game before his daily reading.

He smiled at her, and headed quickly for the reference shelf. If he was correct, he had once read about a three-headed dog, but he could never really be sure that the definitions in the Muggle myth were as it would be here in reality. The dog reminded him of something in the _Psuedo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca__**[1 **_where it said,

_As a twelfth labour Herakles was to fetch Kerberos from Haides' realm. Kerberos had three dog-heads, a serpent for a tail, and along his back the heads of all kinds of snakes."_

At the time, he had written off the description of such a beast as another bit of mythological drama, but could it be possible that the mythological Kerberos was in fact the same animal type as the frightening dog in that corridor. If that was so...

He found it. A book quite old and frayed, but still in fair condition entitled _Taming the Fiend: A Guide to Demonic Dealings_ by Pavlov Bridlen. He picked it up and moved to his usual spot behind the bookshelves where he opened to the index immediately. It took three searches, but finally he found it under "c" rather than "k" where Kerberos was spelt Cerberus.

By the time, four o' clock rolled by, Tom walked out of the library, thinking of and identifying ways in which to acquire a musical instrument.

* * *

"He did it, Tom! He won the game!" cheered Neville as they stood in an empty classroom. On Saturday evenings, Tom had decided to set aside some time so as to keep Neville up with his new reputation of being something of a magical genius. This ensured that he was never hindered by Neville's ineptitude, and that Neville had need for him as he slowly began to see Neville's purpose for his time being here.

However, Neville's obvious Potter-worship that annoyed Tom more than usual. As much as he felt the need to cause the boy pain whenever he mentioned Potter in conversation with that awed and impressed expression, Tom forbore.

"Yes, so I heard from the noise up in the Common Room. Are we going to practice this spell or not?"

Neville nodded, still beaming over the Gryffindor victory. "He practically swallowed the snitch, Tom. It was incredible!"

Tom raised his wand, feeling more and more irritated. "Neville, I find nothing impressive about someone swallowing something he should have caught with his hands," he replied. Without preparation, he pointed his wand at the glass taken from the Great Hall at dinner. "_Perfringo!"_ he called, and the glass shattered, its shards spreading over the wooden desk.

Neville laughed a bit and shrugged, raising his own wand. "_Reparo!"_ Without any hesitation, the glass sprang back together, and stood where it once was.

Tom raised his eyebrows at Neville.

"I've been reading ahead. You showed me that if I did exactly as the index says while reading the spell, I can make any of them work. I never knew it had to do with how I waved my wand."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Neville, Flitwick and McGonagall mention it every class."

Neville appeared sheepish, but he raised his wand again. "I like that one you used to break the glass. That was cool; I suppose it means you'll always be a step ahead, right Tom?"

Tom smiled at him. Neville could really be good company when he complimented Tom like that. "Just move your wand like you're slicing through the item and say the word, '_Perfringo'."_

Neville paused, but after a moment, he moved quickly back to his book bag, and wrote a small note on his Spell notebook. It was a habit he had recently acquired when dealing with spells. If there was one thing both he and Tom could admit and that was the fact that Neville would never have an excellent memory. It would be his curse forever to be forgetful, but he did have a hidden courage to take risks and for that Tom had more patience with him when otherwise he wouldn't have wasted his time.

It was a bonus that with his studies he could keep Neville busy as he did his own research. So far the arrangement of what Neville had termed "friendship" was working for Tom, and he didn't care to part with the concept as long as it continued to prove worthwhile.

"_Perfringo!"_

Tom looked at the blasted chair now lying in different awkward pieces on the floor. He sighed. And then again, Tom was never very good at spending _that_ much time on anyone other than himself, which he termed a more promising investment.

"I believe I meant for you to attempt the spell on the drinking glass," he sighed, sitting on a nearby desk and opening up their textbook.

Neville cast the _Reparo_ Charm on the chair, and as it sprang back to life, Tom was aware of Neville watching him. He obviously had something to say so Tom turned to look at him, but Neville turned away. Such behaviour perplexed Tom to the point that he chose to ignore it.

It was between lessons, and Tom wanted to get in a bit of reading before the next class at 2:30pm He didn't know what brought it about, but he was more than disconcerted to arrive at the library one snowy afternoon to find Potter there. What was more was that he was seated in Tom's usual spot between the bookshelves. If he had known his nemesis would be there, Tom would have taken his books elsewhere, but his favourite table was situated behind a corner and he'd had no warning before he found himself stopping dead just as Potter looked up from the pile of books in front of him.

They both looked at each other for a minute, until Potter made the ridiculous gesture of moving his books out of the way as if under the mistaken impression that Tom intended to sit with him. There didn't seem enough room for both of them and Tom, and Tom hesitated. Yet, if Potter was doing something as irregular as research, there had to be a reason besides a sudden keenness in the advent of winter.

Tom walked, straight-backed to the table, and set his bag down, spilling his books onto the table. He had now moved onto possibilities of conjuring up music as there did not appear to be a single musical instrument in the whole school so his booklist had altered from Dark Magic and magical items to _Artful Magic: A Study in Musicianship of Wizards _among several others.

Despite this fact, though, no kindness in Tom could possibly excuse Potter shooting his book selection a furtive look, then saying, "You want to be a musician?"

Tom did play with the prospect of feigning deafness, but from the way Potter didn't seem to show any shame whatsoever at posing such a ridiculous question, he had to turn to him and reply.

"No," he said.

"Then, why..."

He trailed off as Tom looked at him. "May a person not _read_ anything he likes?" he inquired sharply.

Potter's expression was blank, as he laid his own book down giving Tom time to look at the title. _Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century._ He looked at the others with a renewed interest. They were all autobiographies and recent discoveries. What on earth was Potter researching at such a strange time? Potter caught him looking, and he turned his gaze to his own books.

There was a long, heavy silence.

Tom turned a page.

Potter shifted in his seat.

Tom turned another page.

Potter shut a book.

Tom scribbled a note in his book.

Potter tapped his fingers.

Tom turned back to his book.

Potter sighed, and leaned forward.

He could even hear the minutes tick by on Potter's watch, and this only served to vex him further. Finally, with a sound of frustration, he set his quill and book to fix his gaze on the other boy, ready to berate him for God-only-knew-what. What he did not expect was to look up to find that Potter was staring at him, his books forgotten.

"What is the _matter_ with you?" Tom exclaimed in his best muted voice.

Potter had jumped at Tom's sudden outburst, but now he only seemed indecisive and shifty. "Oh! I-erm-I wanted to ask you a q-question," he stammered, sounding like their DADA teacher. He paused, green eyes still fixed on Tom's now withering expression. Interpreting the incredulous silence for acquiescence, he ploughed on.

"Suppose, I mean just pretend for a moment that you knew someone was trying to steal what was through that trapdoor. Supposing he could get past that dog, but you don't even know what he's after or what else is guarding it. What would you do?"

There was a moment before Tom realised he had been looking at Potter with open-mouthed silence. Another test? What had brought this on? He had to be very careful with his answer or the other boy would see immediately through him. He knew he was being given a warning in some sense, so he contrived to do the same. "Hypothetically?" he asked, resting his chin in his right hand as he placed his elbow on the table. "

Er...what?"

"Just _supposing_!"

"Y-yeah. Like what if?"

Tom disarmed him with a polite smile. "Well, first of all, I would let the person know not to think of it. It's a lost cause to chase after something so heavily guarded, and I expect his intentions will be easily thwarted by whoever put that dog there.

Potter appeared frustrated for a second, and this seemed to make him more articulate. "What if it was impossible to make anyone else believe that he's after it? What if everyone trusts him too much? And all you have is little clues as to what the object is, just a name..."

Now Tom was really thinking. "It would be important to learn as much as possible about the object in question so that he would know exactly how well it's guarded and how long he has before his enemy succeeds."

"Well, it's just that dog right? I don't think it will be long before he gets past it."

"I suppose...then, it would be too easy...there would have to be something more."

"Yes, exactly! A regular student may not feel completely confident about getting past the dog, but someone stronger than that _would_!"

Tom's eyes narrowed. _What_ _a give-away_! "Someone stronger?" he inquired lightly, hoping Potter would keep to this hypothetical discussion. "Like whom?"

Potter paused, and Tom was pleased to see he had put the other boy in a tight situation. Potter seemed to want to know Tom's plan of action, but with Tom's questioning he might just give out some more fascinating tidbits in regards to his true nature. "I mean...well, you know, anyone other than just the students. Wh-what about a teacher?"

_A misleading idea or theory_ was Tom's reaction, as he sought to reply in such a way to coerce the truth from Potter. "Interesting theory," he returned softly, looking down at his hands. "Well, I guess we could think on this for a moment. If the item was transferred out of Gringotts to Hogwarts, and there was said to have been an attempt at robbing the impossible-to-rob bank the same day you were there,"- he added, relishing at the sight of Potter blanching- "then the object is both extremely valuable in that it is also very powerful. Not expendable enough that Dumbledore could keep it a secret. This means that a teacher at Hogwarts is _required_ to know that the school is protecting something, not necessarily what. Now we have a group of educated witches and wizards who know that something is being protected, and that it is guarded by a large, three-headed dog. Of course theyll know how to get past it. You're right; it would be too easy for a teacher to take it."

Potter leaned forward. "Wouldn't that mean the teacher would be more likely to take it?

Tom thought on this for a quick moment, then, coming to stunning realisation, he looked at Potter. "Isn't it obvious? That isn't the only protection on the object!"

The other boy's expression mimicked his own, and for a moment their heads touched as Potter leaned closer over the table. Tom imitated the movement as he didn't want to risk any possibility of being overheard. "Of course! What else would Dumbledore put up? He's a powerful wizard, after all; there's no way anyone could guess," Potter breathed.

"Yet, something is amiss," Tom countered, pulling out a sheet of parchment and his quill. He drew a long line, and at the end of the line, he scribbled the words, "mystery object". He then put the word, "Cerberus" in front of the line.

"What's that?" Potter demanded, squinting at the parchment.

"Shh!" he hissed. It was absolutely vital that nothing break this new train of thought. "If Cerberus waits at the front and you get past him through the trapdoor; that means you would be going underground. _This_, then, means that either the object is sitting there or you've to encounter something just as bad as Cerberus. Another animal stronger than a hellhound would take up about as much space, and the idea of finding something far more powerful than that dog is daunting, I think. Dumbledore has his work cut out for him..."

Potter was listening to this contemplatively. "Funny, if I were Dumbledore, I'd get others to help me protect it."

Tom sneered. "Why would you do that? You can't trust them not to take it."

"True, but...I've been thinking about how one animal can be defeated by one person, but if you create obstacles that not just one person could get through...I mean, no one's good at everything."

Tom didn't reply immediately. His mind was stuck on the word, "obstacles". He scribbled once more on his sheet, dividing the line into sections and writing atop of it, "obstacle course (?)". Did this mean that Dumbledore used different concepts of magic to guard the thing? Yet, if it were being protected for private use, Tom would understand, but this was being protected _from_ private usage. What did that mean? Potter's words and his thoughts blended in his mind as he rested his elbows on the table, pushing his face into his hands.

Another silent moment passed.

Slowly, very slowly, like a drop of dew falling off a leaf, the idea struck him. "If he has the professors helping him protect it each with their own individual obstacles, this ensures that Dumbledore can protect it from himself if necessary, and that each employs his skill of choice to ensure that no one teacher can make it through without consulting the others. That's why they're keeping it at Hogwarts! It's situational; the students are incapable of getting at it, the teachers wouldn't dream of it, and Dumbledore is not in complete control of the protection!"

Potter looked doubtful, but Tom didn't care. This was a breakthrough, and he was certain to find out just _what_ the thing was before any adversary.

"Well, that took us full circle, and still didn't answer any questions," Potter fumed, folding his arms over his book.

Tom was looking at him, convinced that he must have been exceedingly blessed, to prove himself against the most feared Dark Wizard of all time. "It answered mine," he muttered, smiling quickly.

Potter was still leaning forward, and Tom watched a frown appear as he opened his mouth. "What do you...?"

"Harry! Tom?"

Their locked gazes broke apart. The newcomers stopped just as Tom had frozen upon finding Potter there. Tom turned away, certain that it was a perplexing thing to find Potter and him in the throes of philosophical debate with their heads bent over a small sheet of parchment. Who knew what Hermione must have thought? Time was up, though, and the next class would be starting in fifteen minutes. He stood and began packing his bag as Hermione moved toward the table, eyeing Tom warily.

He offered her a frank smile, feeling no pity at all for her fate at being the servant of an ignorant Dark Wizard. Tom would bring him down by the end of the year.

"Erm...Tom?"

He met that wide gaze behind its spectacles once more.

"Thanks...you know, for ...er..._supposing_ with me," Potter murmured.

Tom's new smile wasn't warm at all because he didn't like the fact that Potter still seemed confident that he would win. He did not say, "You're welcome," because, in Tom's eyes, Harry Potter was really not.

* * *

[1 This is an actual book, however the book mentioned a paragraph later is a figment of my imagination. 


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N- This is a long one. Perhaps the only excuse as to why I kept away from this for so long. For those of you who pm****'d me and I didn't get around to replying. This is like my reply! grins weakly I love you all and no, I don't plan on abandoning this EVER! **

**DISCLAIMER- Well, I'm sure if Harry were mine, Voldemort would have been the Headmaster at Hogwarts and Dumbledore, the half-alive man striving for the power he so very little deserves. As these things don't appear to be within canonical agreement, I can safely say that I am not writing this for monetary purposes.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Spicy Muffin, the world's most amazing little sister and best friend. Your little comic strips on Tom inspire me so. Perhaps this will encourage her to post some! However, snowball fights are dedicated to my beta, Pipenerd, ****who still awes me with her grammar skills and surpasses me in Tom-knowledge. Gold star for you, darling Pipenerd.

* * *

**

_**-Time Or Manner-**_

_**Chapter 4**_

As Christmas Holidays approached, Tom was one of many to sign up to stay at Hogwarts. He had no intention of going back to Surrey if he could help it. In this decision, he realised that Hogwarts was more his home than any of the Foster homes he had been in since he was a child. He felt edified, successful, and as if he was moving forward from childhood the longer he remained here, and while it seemed to Tom that such feelings of accomplishment should be the logical outcome of the educational process, none of the other schools he'd attended before had ever made him feel that way.

Neville went home, however, as did Hermione. Tom was left with Finnegan, Thomas, Potter, and two of the Gryffindor girls in their year This didn't bother him so much as it should have. He was mostly thinking of how little he would be expected to explain his actions for a while. He was troubled because there appeared to be several professors staying at Hogwarts as well, and he could hardly believe that each of them had prepared one of the obstacles that he suspected were lurking beyond the three-headed-dog.

As much as he wanted to work, the library was open at scarce hours during the holidays, and the Common Room was noisier than he could ever recall it being. Potter and Weasley were always at their loud games of chess, whilst Weasley's twin brothers led the fray with Exploding Snap and whatnot. Tom found himself frequently shut up in the dormitory with his books as the others clowned around down in the Common Room or he would wander the castle, mostly near the corridor keeping the item, just thinking.

One morning, he woke to find, on the edge of his bed, two packages neatly wrapped, both seeming to have arrived in the night. He sat up, pushing the covers back as he blinked at them in a puzzled manner. It was still early, and the other boys had not yet woken. Lifting one in his hand, he eyed the packaging; there was a note pinned on the paper reading, "Merry Christmas! Love, Hermione." He started as he realised that it was in fact Christmas morning, and the other boys had gifts as well, their piles more ample than his own. Pursing his lips, he tore the paper away to find a box of Chocolate Frogs. Perplexed, he reached for the second. It was wrapped in deep Christmas red with a white bow perched atop it. Tom had never seen anything so...so...well, he had just never seen anything like it. He looked around, not certain why he felt the need to do so, before carefully pulling the ribbon. The paper fell away, revealing a rectangular box of cherry red wood. He felt sure that the fastening was made of real silver. Tom's eyes narrowed as he touched it. He made to undo it, but it was just then that Potter stirred, and Tom quickly swung his legs off his bed and headed for his trunk.

Opening the trunk, he laid the wooden box and the chocolates under his t-shirts, and then he closed it, eyeing Potter's supposed sleeping form. He felt extremely secretive about the whole thing, and he didn't contrive to think on that mysterious gift until he could find some time alone.

This was especially difficult for Tom because that evening the Christmas feast was held. He was to be subject to around four long hours at a table in the Great Hall, listening to the yells and howls, and general laughter of everyone. All the teachers were tipsy, the students were full, but Tom sat there, thinking back to the strange box he had received for Christmas. He only felt fortunate that no one bothered him at the table or he would have found the entire proceeding even more unbearable than before.

Then, that afternoon the other boys coerced him to come outside, claiming that he was spoiling the fun by staying indoors that day. Most of all, they were somewhat curious to see how Tom would handle himself in a snowball fight.

Tom, thinking the whole idea of throwing a ball of tiny frozen white shards at each other ridiculous, stood near a cluster of bushes beside the lake, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. He watched the other boys a short distance away and tried to understand why they were laughing as snowballs crashed everywhere. He saw Potter make a spectacular dive at Finnegan, who was supposedly on his team, and save them both from a rain of snowballs from the twin's direction. Rolling his eyes, he thought that maybe if he put his hands in his sleeves, they might be warmer. He had just succeeded in hunching his shoulders so as to retract his hands into his sleeves, when something icy, round and _cold_ hit the back of his neck, and slid into his jumper.

Tom was furious.

Whirling around, he locked eyes with Potter, who was grinning, another snowball at the ready. Tom tried not to shiver as he felt the ice hit his lower back, but this only made him angrier.

"Cold, Tom?" Potter shouted; his cheeks were red, and his eyes laughing. "Come on! Nothing like a snowball fight!"

"_You!"_ Tom ground out, taking chase.

A normal boy shouldn't have been able to run that fast, and it wasn't exactly fair that Potter was using his Dark Arts to _exhaust_ Tom into submission. Yet there he was, running at top speed along the side of the lake while Tom pelted after him, stumbling at intervals, pushing himself up, and running even more. Tom refused to tire, however, and as Potter detoured through the throng of snowball, Tom ducked and weaved his way through until they were back near the groundskeeper's hut. Potter disappeared behind it, still laughing breathlessly. Tom paused and thought a moment, then disappeared around the other end. When he rounded to the other side, he didn't see Potter anymore. Frozen in place and still panting, he looked around amidst the clouds of steam emitting from his own mouth as he heaved, clutching a stitch in his stomach.

In a moment, he felt a sudden weight on his back and a huge quantity of ice was being stuffed down his shirt. He toppled over, face-first, as Potter's elbow dug into his back. There was a brief scuffle as Tom made the effort to push Potter off so he could finally. Stop. Putting. All. That. Snow. In. His. Coat!

Tom finally got Potter's arm behind his back, at the same time placing his own hand over the back of Potter's head, forcing it into the hard-packed snow. He understood the concept now. He found a heavy degree of satisfaction in forcing Potter's face into the snow, and watching him try to wriggle out of his hold. Yes, there was indeed, nothing like a snowball fight.

When Potter got up, pushing Tom away with a surprising display of strength, Tom was alarmed and sat back on the snow, trying to put some distance between them. Potter only grinned, spitting out water as he reached down, packing a snowball together.

"Harry! Let's go! Ronniekins has already run off inside!" one of the twins called.

Potter turned, "Yeah, all right!" He swivelled on the spot to face Tom again before saying heartily. "Next time, then?"

Tom would later remember the look on Potter's face just then, and shiver from the remembered cold.

* * *

Neville returned three days before the start of the spring term, and he rushed into the dorm in the early hours. Tom was not aware of his entry until he felt someone prod him in the side. Groggily, Tom turned over and looked at him. Neville was grinning, and for a moment Tom's perception didn't register as Neville's grin widened.

"What'd you think of the gift?"

Tom sat up under the covers, trying to clear his head. The last few nights had been a bit rough what with Potter making so much noise as he was leaving the dormitory in the middle of the night…

Then Tom was awake, and he looked at Potter's bed. Potter was the only one still buried in his covers while the rest of the dorm room was empty. Tom frowned, and remembered that Neville had been speaking to him.

"What gift?" he returned irritably.

Neville appeared crest-fallen. "The wand arca! I read about them as soon as I got to my Uncle's library! I thought you might like one."

Tom paused. Suddenly interested, he pushed the covers back and moved to his trunk, unearthing his mysterious box. "You mean this is a wand box?"

Neville brightened. "Yes."

Abruptly the clasp fell open, and Tom stared at it. He was only half-aware of Neville watching him expectantly as he pushed the cover open. The box was empty, lined with red satin. Pulling out his wand, he laid it in the imprint there, and then he closed it. He looked down at it for a long moment, but then he was suddenly aware of Neville's stare. He looked up at the other boy, his eyebrow raised. Neville only looked puzzled.

Tom's frustration returned, and he shut the box at which the clasp sealed automatically. He laid it back in his trunk and stood, facing Neville who now appeared more than pleased. "So what do you think? You like it, Tom?"

Tom looked at Neville for a long time, silently contemplating what on earth could make Neville look at him like that, with such expectation. It had been happening before Christmas holidays and now it had intensified, and it made Tom feel like he was controlling something he couldn't even see. He just wanted Neville to stop looking at him like that.

"It's all right! Just don't- I 'm going to get dressed!" Tom had raised his voice without knowing, and Neville's expression was comically nervous as Tom chose to turn away.

As he pulled a pair of trousers from his trunk, Neville sat on his bed. "How was your holiday?"

"Boring, really," he returned, still looking carefully through his trunk. "There were a lot of tomes I had access to in the library, but I didn't have any time to read them with those idiots dragging me outside all the time for snowball fights."

Neville grinned. "You had a snowball fight?" He seemed to find the idea as ridiculous as Tom did, so Tom felt more comfortable looking at him again and nodded, rolling his eyes a bit to convey the suffering he had had to endure in remaining with the rest.

Neville gave an easy laugh at that, then he sighed, "I was mostly reading. I wanted to be ahead so I can show the teachers. My Gran was so impressed; she said that I must be in good company if I'm so concentrated on studying! Anyway, I learned a really cool leg-locking curse near Chapter Eight. I figured that if you mix the leg-locker curse with a lesser jinx, you could manage to lock your opponent to the wall."

Tom was looking for his toothbrush. "Yeah. If you read the footnotes, it gives you a reference to the index where it explains that jinxes and charms are only components in curses and you can blend them and create your own hybrid."

He looked up, having found his toothbrush. "For example, the Solium jinx combined with the Silencing Charm leaves a person both deaf and dumb with side-effects of emotional trauma."

Neville paused at this, thinking. "That's sort of cool. Can we practice mixing jinxes today? You can show me the ones you know."

"Sure."

Neville grinned again, settling back on the pillow. "This is great! It makes all my reading worthwhile."

Tom rolled his eyes. "It should always be worthwhile. Make use of that library of your uncle's every holiday, and you should do all right."

"Well, next holiday you can come to my house, can't you?"

Tom was taken aback. "Your house? Why would we go there?"

Now it was Neville's turn to look taken aback. "Well…I thought that…well, you d-don't have parents…and…if you're lonely..."

Tom was standing, looking down at the shorter boy and he could not bear it- he would either hit him or jinx him until he wasn't recognisable. "You haven't a clue as to what I feel! So what if I don't have parents? And what is it to you?! Do not sit there and pretend that you can help me and that you can-that you-that you…" He trailed off helplessly, feeling wretched and sick. Why did it wind down to that? What he might have thought was loyalty and devotion was only pity. Shaking himself internally, he continued. "You should have realised by now that I would have grown past that point where such a meaningless thing as my being an orphan has anything to do with what I want or don't want to do," he said coolly, hoping to inject as much venom into his words as possible. "And you should know better than to pretend that you understand it!"

Neville's eyes were shining and he appeared near tears, but it was not until he stood, his fists clenched and his face contorted in an expression Tom had never seen on his face before that he realised that Neville was angry. "How come you only think of yourself?" he spat, approaching Tom slowly. "You think I don't understand it?! You think I can't help you! You're the one who told me not to believe when others tried to tell me what I can and can't do! And I do understand more than _you_ think because I _have _lost my parents, and no one should get to a point where it doesn't determine what you want to do with your life!"

Tom's response was scornful. After all, this was Neville he was dealing with. "Oh yeah, and what do you want to do? You can't possibly have that worked out based on the absence of your mum and dad."

Tom would never forget the look on Neville's face then. Gone was uncertainty, gone even more was the childish candour. He faced Tom, his mouth curled with rage. "I want to make them proud…and I want to avenge them. I never thought I would be able to, but…" Neville paled right then, and the intensity of his gaze made Tom uncomfortable again. "It's because of you, you made me believe I could do it, and I will. If you knew the person who-who-who did what they did to my mum- to my _dad_, you'd want revenge." The other boy looked away, and Tom backed into the pole of his four-poster. "And you're trying to tell me it doesn't matter."

As nonplussed as he was at that veiled compliment shot at him, he didn't think Neville's statement had been fair. He didn't even _know_ who his parents were, and he felt it took greater strength to overcome that, and he had. "A lot of people are orphans. All I am trying to convey to you is that you shouldn't think it makes you special. What will make you _special_ is how you overcome it, how you forget it and make a life above it, not around it!"

"You know what your problem is? You're so afraid of people seeing that something hurts you! You hide that along with everything else, including the fact that you're jealous of Harry!"

Tom was speechless, but at that juncture, it didn't matter because he heard rather than saw Potter's bedclothes rustle, and Tom turned to look. Judging from the other boy's expression, he had been awake a lot longer than Tom would have liked. His cat-like green eyes didn't look back at Tom, though; instead, they focussed solely on Neville, bright and curious. Neville was embarrassed and looked back at Potter with uncertainty.

The situation was not to Tom's liking, and he felt he had to alter things quickly. He folded his arms, and looked curiously down at the boy-hero.

"Well, since you seem so interested in our conversation., why not help us, Potter? How are you coping with their death? What's the hero's secret?" he spat angrily.

Neville was appalled. "Tom! Don't-"

Potter pushed his covers back, and swung his legs off the bed, not looking at Tom, who knew he had definitely struck a chord. "It's all right, Neville. It's my fault for eaves-dropping. Then again, you weren't being that quiet to begin with." He finally looked at Tom, whose fists were clenched at the gaze falling upon him.

"Well?" Tom cast at him spitefully.

Potter shrugged. "I don't know what you think I am. I miss my parents; I wish I had them. When I saw them…er…in a photograph, I felt like nothing else mattered because they are important. I realised that whether they're there or not, they do help me make my decisions. And…I don't think Neville's wrong, but I don't think you're wrong either."

Now this was ridiculous, and Tom considered voicing this, but he bit his lip. It was Neville who spoke. "I guess it's different for each person, living without their parents for different reasons."

"I didn't know you were an orphan, Neville," was Potter's reply, and Tom did not want to relate that he had not been enlightened on this topic. He observed his fingernails quickly as Neville went red suddenly.

"I'm not an orphan," Neville said, and Tom gave him a side-long glance while Potter's eyebrows bunched together.

* * *

School began again, and Neville appeared to forget their disagreement as he smiled and laughed at Tom's occasional sarcasm, joined him in studying, and began to pick up things a lot quicker. They practiced Jinx-Charm hybrid theories in empty classrooms, and though Neville was not able to create any of his own, he found mixes that Tom had created quite entertaining.

He improved significantly in their lessons. Though Snape did not offer compliments to Gryffindors, he left Neville alone, and Hermione had to work even harder because Tom had long ago surpassed her, and Neville was right behind him.

On the side, it didn't help that Potter kept appearing at Tom's favourite spot in the library, reading more books that had titles of no particular importance. It didn't matter anyway because Tom no longer thought Potter stood a chance, and it seemed this was proven every time he opened his mouth to say anything.

As much time as Tom spent estimating Potter's abilities, he had not been thinking much of Neville's abilities, which, in the end, turned out to be a bit of a miscalculation on his part. He had been sitting by the Common Room fire, writing out the calculations for the capacity difference for Transfiguration of large objects. Neville was there with him, buried dutifully in a book, while slowly making his way through the box of chocolate frogs Tom had received from Hermione at Christmas. Abruptly, Neville started and dropped a chocolate frog on the rug.

Tom looked up. "What's wrong?"

Neville was suddenly excited. "I just remembered! There's a book in the library that I could swear I had seen before! I think it might be the same one I read during Christmas. The one on herbal references in Potions. If I had that, then I might be able to remember the measurements without the ingredients!"

"Are you sure?" Tom returned doubtfully. Neville had an irritating habit of mixing his memories so they were of dubious reliability. Tom now knew better than to expect too much.

"Yes, this time I'm sure! The binding was purple and had four stars on its spine! How could I have-okay, wait here, I'm going to go borrow it!"

Tom stared blankly after him as he rushed out of the Common Room. A part of him really did hope Neville had remembered correctly this time, but he wasn't going to get too worked up. Sighing, he opened his notebook, penning down his most recent curse: the Concero Affectus. He had derived this from the idea of Cheering Charm, a hybrid of that and the Parallel jinx allowed Tom to tap into the ability to control the subjects emotions by simply thinking of one. He had secretly tested it on Neville who had sat for five minutes, red-faced and furious, until the time-constraint kicked in. Afterwards, Neville had been silent, looking introspectively puzzled. That little episode still made Tom smile.

"What's so funny, Tom?"

Rearranging his expression, he looked up. Hermione had come to sit with him, accompanied by Weasley. The red-head, who was still sore about Tom's interference with the troll on Hallowe'en, gave him a stiff nod as he set up his chess board. Tom thought chess was a bit useless and, though it seemed one had to use a lot of psychology and careful foresight to play, he didn't understand why one had to waste the ability on the little pieces on that board. Tom felt he could be sure he would never need chess in the real world.

"Oh, it's nothing," he returned, observing Weasley placing the chess pieces one by one on their squares.

"Would you like to play?" she offered, misinterpreting his gaze. Weasley looked up challengingly, and Tom quickly shook his head, turning his head down again.

A few moments later, Hermione and Weasley were laughing quietly as Hermione proceeded to lose spectacularly to the red-head. Then, they fell quiet as the game seemed to become serious. Tom shifted in his seat so he wouldn't be distracted.

That was when Potter plopped down next to them, sporting a dark expression.

"Don't talk to me for a moment," Weasley began. "I'm trying to concen- what's the matter with you- you look terrible!"

The boy-hero glanced furtively at Tom, who wasn't in the mind to be overtly polite enough as to relocate; he reached for a chocolate frog he didn't really want to eat just so he would look comfortable. It just didn't make sense for everyone to make way for Potter so that he and his friends could make secret, conspiring conversation. Potter sighed. "Snape's refereeing our next match with Hufflepuff."

Their replies of outrage really sickened Tom. There they were, acting out a false concern for petty matters such as Quidditch, mean teachers, and chess when their Boy Who Lived was plotting a take-over. _At_ _least_, Tom thought, _that's what he's supposed to be doing now._

"Tom!"

Everyone in the Common Room whipped around to look at Neville. He was at the portrait entrance, his face white as a sheet, and he had his wand in hand. A strangely feeling of foreboding entered him as he blinked back at Neville, but he said nothing as he dropped the chocolate frog he was holding practically in Potter's lap, and rose.

Neville rushed over, his face shining with sweat and desperation, and his normally tiny blue eyes were wide with fear. "You have to come," he whispered, grabbing Tom's arm. "I've done-he attacked me first, and I-Malfoy!"

"Is everything all right, Neville?" Potter broke in. Neville glanced at the other boy, the fright in his expression betraying too much, and Tom saw Potter's eyes go dark with a strange alertness. Tom grabbed Neville by the back of his robes and began to haul him towards the portrait entrance. He knew it would be a bad idea to get Potter involved, and he was very displeased to see the dark-haired boy rise from his seat, turning to Hermione and Weasley. "I'm going with-"

"No, you're not!" Tom shouted, pushing the portrait open. "This has nothing to do with you!"

Potter halted in his steps toward them, and Tom glared at him, hoping to ward him off completely. He noticed with detached speculation that Potter was holding the chocolate frog he'd dropped. Slowly, very slowly, Potter backed up, eyes on Tom. Most of the Common Room had gone completely silent, and a lot of them were looking at him incredulously. Neville was tugging on his sleeve, so he turned away into the hallway.

"So what happened?" Tom demanded.

Neville was still pale. "I was just coming out of the library when Malfoy passed by. He said he'd just learned the leg-locking curse and was looking for someone to practice it on. He would have done it too, but…you remember that curse hybrid you showed me last Wednesday?"

Tom was way ahead of him. "Where'd you put him?"

Neville started to walk, clenching his hands together. "I locked him in a storage room-I hadn't known it was there before; I just found it. But, Tom, I don't know how long he'll have! You can't tell anyone! Promise me!"

Tom was now walking briskly with Neville. "It will be on my head for having taught you."

The early evening was cold, and the corridors rang with the winds of distant spring. Torches on their brackets flickered as Neville and Tom rushed through the hallways. It was not yet curfew and there were still a few students heading in and out of empty classrooms and the Great Hall- most of all, the library. When they reached the storage room, the corridor was conveniently empty, and Tom could also swear he had never seen that door there before. Neville furtively pushed the door open, and Tom followed him in.

The room was quite large, and it was then obvious as to why Neville decided it must be a storage room. Hundreds and hundreds of books, unidentifiable items, toys, and old furniture filled the vast enclosure. There was more on his mind than that, however, as the pale, still form that was Malfoy met Tom's gaze. He might have been a doll for all that anyone knew with his grey eyes turned glassy and vague, and his pale skin nearly snow-white. He still had that all too familiar arrogant expression on his mouth, and just as much he seemed to sneer up at Tom when he approached.

"Cavusa Vita…" Neville murmured softly from behind him. "I didn't know it would be this bad. This has to be Dark Magic, Tom; what will my Gran say?"

He didn't look at Neville as he knelt down beside what might as well have been a corpse. "She will tell you that this isn't Dark Magic. You've done an incredible thing, Neville," he returned softly, awestruck.

Tom heard Neville pause, and then kneel down beside him, looking down at Malfoy. "An incredible thing? Look at him! I've-I've killed…"

"You haven't killed anyone, Neville. He's alive, actually. This curse I taught you, it's a mixture of two very good things." He smiled because success often felt like this: sweet. "One is the Vitality charm, a charm that the tired use when they have piles of work to do, or even to vitalise the elderly; that mixed with _cavusum_, which is the charm your Gran must use when she is washing her cauldrons or cooking pots. I mixed two very good charms together, and made Cavusa Vita."

Neville was crying, and Tom didn't want to look at him. The other boy just didn't understand that he came to create things, make things new, heal…hadn't that been what the wand-seller told him?

"He's not breathing, Tom!" Neville cried. "I don't care if it's Dark Magic or not! Just undo it!"

Tom froze at Neville's words. _Did he just say that?_ Neville didn't care when it seemed in all their classes the professors kept repeating again and again that Dark Magic must be avoided at all costs? It had made him wonder about the separation of the two especially in his readings. The Dark Arts books in the library named horrible things Dark Wizards had done, and it was often the same statement reiterated: wielding the Dark Arts as their blade, the Dark Wizards tried to rule. However, there was never anything to determine just what those Dark Arts were. And now, this unexpected experiment proved one incredible thing to Tom.

"You don't care," he whispered, his mouth stretching into a slow, warm grin. "You really don't care? Neville, do you see that you've made me understand something? _You,_ Neville, have taught me an interesting lesson…how it doesn't even matter…."

"Tom!" Neville gasped, leaning over Malfoy's still form, his tears dried on his cheeks. "Stop it! Please, just undo it!"

Tom laughed. He hadn't really laughed in a while, but he was ecstatic. An epiphany, he heard it was called. Savouring it, he turned to look at the other boy, who was staring at him with mingled disbelief and horror. He stood, relaxing his shoulders as he pulled his wand from his robes. He was feeling generous; he wanted Neville to have this feeling as well. "How many times has Draco Malfoy called you an idiot? How many times has he mocked you? How many times have his friends threatened you?"

"I-It's hard to count-I…I don't like him, but I didn't want to do _this_ to him."

"Why not this? Doesn't he deserve it?"

"Well…"

Tom pointed his wand at Malfoy, but he looked at Neville. "Listen to me, Neville; you put this curse on Malfoy because you thought it would serve him right for trying to put his own curse on you. And you didn't care whether this was Dark Magic or not; you didn't stop and think about it because you felt justified by bigger things. Now the bigger things have been dealt with, you're thinking about what your Gran will say, which is bigger than even the curse is: the consequence. And right now…let's pretend that I know the Dark Arts. We can pretend that I'm about to use some of it to save your victim, to put him back to the way he was: hateful, mocking, mean, and bitter. You don't care about that, though, because some things are bigger; some things matter far more than the little choices under them. Do you get it, Neville?"

Neville had stopped shaking. He was still looking at Tom in disbelief, but the horror had been replaced with a modicum of thought.

"What is Dark Magic, Neville? What have they been telling us, those professors?"

Neville shook his head slowly, turning away. "I-I can't remember. You're saying some things are bigger than that, though?"

"Yes," Tom replied. "Things like revenge- you mentioned something about revenge last week, didn't you? The Wizarding World is afraid of things like that because they mean their definitions and comparisons of Dark and Light become blurred. Don't you agree?"

There was a pause.

"I understand," Neville answered, sighing as he pushed himself up. "The revenge I took on Malfoy was bigger than the spell I used. Now that he's been hurt, the consequences are bigger than the revenge, right?"

Tom nodded. "Right. It's a timed curse so you only have to say _Finite Incantatem_." He put his wand away.

Neville gave a weak grin and drew his wand, whispering the words over Malfoy's silent head. Colour bloomed into those hollow cheeks, and Malfoy took a deep breath. Neville looked up at Tom, smiling for real now. "It seems now I really owe you."

Tom whispered a Memory Modifying Charm quickly, but he allowed himself a bigger grin. "I know. We had better clear out before he wakes, don't you think."

Neville nodded and he followed silently, more willingly, as Tom whisked out of the room.

* * *

Because Tom had let Neville undo the curse, and because he used the Memory Modifying Charm, Malfoy did not change his attitude. However, the event had changed Neville somewhat. When Malfoy insulted him, Neville's responding expression was enough to unsettle even Tom when he happened to glance at him. His abilities in school improved most of all, and that courage that Tom saw in Neville began to show with every week that passed. Sometimes, Tom didn't know what to make of this new development.

Quite frankly, Tom could never really define how he felt about Neville most of the time. When he thought about him, the things that came to mind were the impatience he often felt with the other boy's short memory, his exasperation with Neville's mousiness, and his disgust at the way he could go on about Potter. Overall- when thinking about it from a logical perspective- Tom felt he really should not have chosen to have someone like Neville for a companion. However, it seemed odd that Neville's presence to be a necessity, because Tom had never really been the lonely kind. Yet, when he watched Neville perform a spell to put any of the professors to shame, Tom felt a certain indefinable satisfaction

Tom learned that it was not only Malfoy who liked to harass Neville. It appeared to have been good sport for any passing Slytherin. Tom's incredulity was unimaginable the day he happened to be walking near Neville and the Slytherin called Marcus Flint slammed into Neville's back. Neville's bag tore at the crease, spilling his ink bottle and sending his quills and papers flying. Flint passed them, rejoining his friends with a jeer. Tom waited politely for Neville to reveal his newly acquired righteous anger.

Neville bent down and collected the cracked bottle, stuffing it back in his bag, not seeming to mind that his assailant was walking freely across the hallway.

"What…was that?!" Tom demanded.

Neville looked up absently. "What? Oh, that's just the Slytherin Quidditch captain: Flint."

"I know that! But _why_ did you let him get away with it?"

Neville shrugged, using his wand to quickly repair the stitching on his bag. He mumbled something that sounded like, "wouldn't be worth it…."

The hallway wasn't too crowded, so Tom shrugged his book-bag higher on his shoulder before drawing his wand. Aiming it at Neville, he bellowed, "_Visvires_!" Neville stumbled back at the blow, falling to his knees. After a moment, he looked up at him in outrage, and Tom was not feeling in the least merciful. "You had better be planning some way to make sure that fool remembers not to cross us or I will make sure _you_ remember," he hissed.

"B-but, Tom!"

"_Do it_!"

Marcus Flint was already halfway up the stairs heading to the next corridor. Neville was still clutching his wand as he pushed himself off his knees. He glanced at Tom quickly, before running up to the bottom of the steps. "Oi!" he yelled.

Flint didn't turn. He was laughing at a joke one of his friends was telling. Neville's shaky resolve faded, but upon glancing at Tom's expression turned back again. "Oi! Flint, look here, you troll-face!"

The Fifth Year Slytherin's expression of disbelief was nearly comical, and Tom stood back to watch. A few of the Slytherin's friends stepped forward, but he muttered to them that they should go on ahead. As they walked away, Flint's troll's mouth curled and his dead marble-like eyes squinted. "What did you just call me?" he growled around his bad-teeth.

Neville didn't respond, rather he raised his wand. Flint took this as a challenge, and he pulled out his wand. The smaller Gryffindor boy was all too ready….

"_Visvires_!" Neville hissed.

Tom had never seen anyone plummet so hard. He watched with fascination when Flint's spine struck the edges of the stone steps as he careened down towards them, landing at Neville's and Tom's feet. The Slytherin was groaning, and a few students had stopped, wondering what happened. Tom merely looked on innocently when Neville shot him a look before squatting down near the fallen Flint.

"I don't want to have to deal with you again," Neville said quietly, perhaps a little earnestly. Flint looked up at him in disbelief, and Tom relished that. Who would suspect little unassuming Neville would ever retaliate. _The fool_, Tom thought smugly.

"Mr. Flint!"

All the students' heads whipped up to the source of the voice. Professor McGonagall was standing at the top of the steps. She descended quickly and Neville stumbled back to his feet, eyeing the professor with something like muted terror. Flint rolled onto his stomach to push himself up, but it was quite evident from the cracking noise that he had injured something quite badly when, with a cry, he fell back in position again. Professor McGonagall whirled on Neville.

"What happened?"

Tom gave an inward groan. Knowing Neville, he may very well tell all….

"Flint fell down the stairs, Professor. Tom and I saw it, and I was just checking to see if he was all right."

Tom froze, staring at the boy who used to cry because Snape thought he was an idiot, who would have done any good thing to make sure the teachers recognised him. The boy who, apparently, could lie just as well as anything else he did.

As McGonagall conjured a stretcher and sent a student to inform Madame Pomfrey, and as the students headed off toward their classrooms, Tom walked over to Neville. The boy was pale as starch, and his hands were shaking, but he was smiling. Tom picked up his book bag from the floor and handed it to him.

"Thanks," Neville breathed, looking after Flint floating down the hallway with McGonagall in tow.

Tom felt he had to make sure because it would have bothered him if he didn't know. "Any regrets?"

He was almost appalled to see a look reminiscent to his own when Neville smirked a little. "Not this time," he replied.

So, Tom, hauling his book bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder, thought of that indefinable feeling, that knowledge of Neville's presence being necessary; it was like a light went on before him as they made their way up those steps. He felt pride. He was proud of Neville.

* * *

Potter was on the move again. While during the Christmas break, his intentions of sneaking into that corridor had waned, they now seemed to increase. The fake-hero was frequenting the library again, looking up more books, titles Tom never got to see because Potter had shanghaied his spot between the bookshelves. He was even more often in corners of the Common Room whispering frantically to Weasley and Hermione as the two of them listened and added their own views, and Tom was very certain that Potter had finally inducted them. Though he was a bit confused as to how the boy-hero had managed such a thing with Hermione. She liked Potter a lot, but even Tom would admit that she wasn't stupid.

He decided that it was time to induct Neville in a way, at least, let Neville know that Potter was up to something.

"They're doing something, and I need to find out what," he muttered to him.

Neville glanced at the trio huddled over a couple books, and his own eyes looked curious. "Well, Harry and Ron seemed really interested in that dog on the Third Floor Corridor since that time," he contributed matter-of-factly.

Tom pounced on this. "Potter wants to steal what's in there," he returned, and remained stoic when Neville looked at him in alarm.

"You think he wants to steal what that dog's guarding?"

"Yes."

"B-But Pot-I mean Harry wouldn't-"

"How do you know what _Harry_ wouldn't do? Remember how everyone was mad over how he and Weasley knocked out that troll? He originally locked it in the girl's toilet with Hermione because she had upset Weasley that morning."

"What?!"

"Yes, I was there, remember?"

"It's hard to believe, Tom. Harry's a really nice bloke."

Tom smiled, and so that no one could see, pushed Neville off his chair. Neville toppled with a yelp, and several other students turned to look at him. Tom quickly bent down to grab Neville's hand and help him up. "Are you okay?" he demanded, worry etched in his expression, and Neville looked at him with some consternation. When the smaller boy had resumed his seat and the others in the Common Room looked away, Neville rounded on him.

"What did you do that for?"

Tom still looked down at him worriedly. "Are you absolutely sure you're okay? I mean, should I get you anything? A drink? Something for the pain? Shall I go get Trevor?"

Neville looked uncomfortable. "Erm…why are you being so-"

"Nice?" Tom finished for him, smiling slowly. "Because I'm also a really nice bloke."

Neville paused, hesitant.

"Or can you reconcile that with the fact that I frequently hurt you?"

Neville's eyes widened in comprehension after a moment, and Tom was pleased to see that his point had been made clear.

He smirked. "You see, Neville, how easy it is? Niceness is a charade for personal gain. In the Foster home you learn that first and foremost. The rich give charity, not because the happy faces of children are a necessity for their existence, but because it eases their own shred of social guilt. Niceness is the easing of social guilt, Neville. Potter can have his niceness; I'm much more honest with you."

Neville nodded, rubbing his elbow where it had struck the table leg on his journey downwards.

Tom turned back to his notes, allowing the lesson to sink in.

"Right," Neville said, his tone agreeing. "So what should we do?"

Tom looked up again, and he saw Potter was now leaning back in his chair, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. "We're going to watch him, Neville. You can get closer to them so let me know when they're planning any big moves."

Neville followed Tom's gaze and his next expression was indiscernible.

* * *

Two weeks later, Neville passed him a note in Charms:

_**For some reason Ron went to the hospital wing. Harry's received an owl, something about a tower. I couldn't read it. **_

Tom wrote back:

_Go visit him right after class; find out what put him in there and show concern about what type of injury it is._

Neville read this, and nodded quickly, tucking the paper away as Flitwick came round their table.

He was in Potions when Neville slipped into the seat beside him, breathing heavily. Tom glanced around; no one was paying any attention. "Well?" he prodded.

Neville had a puzzled, shocked look on his face. "Tom, I think Malfoy knows!"

"What?!"

"Yeah, he's in the hospital wing with Ron right now. I went there and Madame Pomfrey wouldn't let me in because she said that Malfoy was already in there and she didn't want Ron to have too many visitors at once. She said I could come after lessons today."

Tom was barely listening. It was beginning to get confusing. Had they acquired Malfoy as an ally? How on earth was he going to find out? He could force the information out of Malfoy, and then Obliviate him, but he had read that the lasting effects of frequent Obliviation were too evident with side-effects of short-term memory. Tom made a mental note to experiment with a hybrid, and make a more effective spell for forgetting. He would need to use Neville again. Neville wasn't always noticeable, and could blend with the crowd quite easily.

"You'll have to tail Malfoy until we find out just what part he's playing in this."

Unfortunately, this did not prove fruitful. Thursday ended, and Friday began. Tom went to classes as usual, watching Potter and wondering what he was up to. His frustration only increased when the Boy Who Lived would look up at him, catch his eye and look away. "What, what, _what_ are you planning, you smug little bastard?" Tom found himself thinking.

Nothing was really all that evident until Saturday night when he was shaken awake. He sat up, turning to look at Neville in the darkness.

"Harry just got up and left!"

Tom was out of bed in an instant, pulling a set of robes over his head. This was going to be extremely inconvenient. He hadn't a clue as to what Potter was going to do. His best bet was to head for the Third Floor Corridor and wait it out. It might even be possible that he would have to enter again and face Cerberus or whatever he was called. It didn't matter anyway, really, the important thing was to keep Potter from succeeding with what he intended to do.

Tom swept out of the dormitory with Neville in tow. The Common Room was dark, silent, and Neville seemed to be anticipating the whole thing as they pushed their way out of the portrait hole.

Like many a night before this, the corridors of Hogwarts were drafty, and the fires on their torch brackets flickered and danced with each gust of wind. He felt Neville shiver beside him as they quietly made their way through the fire-lit dark.

The Third Floor Corridor was deserted, and Neville leaned against the door, pensively shifting his weight from one leg to the other, occasionally glancing at Tom, who stood nearby, wand out and ready. Shadows crept by, but there was still silence.

"Do you think he's already gone inside?" Neville whispered.

He gave the other boy a side-long glance. "Perhaps you should check if the beast is still alive."

Neville fell silent, and Tom paced the end of the hallway, his shoes making soft thumps on the cold stone. Half an hour passed, Neville yawned, and Tom sat on the floor, leaning up against the wooden door. Tom's theory was that he did not need to risk his own life tonight; in fact, he could very well face Potter without entering that corridor. He and Neville only needed to wait until Potter exited and confiscate whatever he had removed.

"_Yes,_" he thought vehemently. "_Whatever happens will make it worth the wait_"

The draft pushing down the hallway made Tom's bones jitter and he drew his knees up. He heard Neville give a snuffling snore at which Tom promptly elbowed him.

Neville sat up abruptly, his eyes wide and innocent from sleep. "Huh? What? Did you see something?"

Tom blinked down at him. "No. You're a noisy sleeper. Someone will know we're here."

"Ah…sorry, Tom…just going to…closemyeyes…for a minute." And Neville was gone again, his head drooping precariously towards Tom's shoulder. Tom rubbed his eyes vigorously, and sat up, wondering if there was such a thing as a wakefulness charm. He assumed there may very well be a potion, which led him to contemplations on the characteristics of herbs and whether they could be applied to spell making. That thought may very well have been the last to occur to him before his eyelids drooped for the fifteenth time and Neville's shoulder became softer next to his ear.

Professor McGonagall's study was a sight warmer than that corridor, but that did not banish the chill in Tom's blood right then. It was a chill which could have been the heat of anger were he not shaking so badly. Neville was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an order, but McGonagall's expression was hard, cold, and almost frustrated. She seemed on the verge of saying something each time her thin lips quivered and her sharp eyes narrowed.

Tom was glaring at the floor, trying to recover from his own stupidity. How could he have fallen asleep like that; let down his guard so that McGonagall in simple _passing_ had found them? There could certainly be nothing to improve the state of things.

It was upon this thought that McGonagall's study door was flung open and Filch ambled in, dragging Potter and Hermione by the arms. Tom's spirits lifted considerably just then, and Neville gasped. Filch pushed Potter so that he nearly collided with the desk, and Hermione was looking on in frozen shock at Tom and Neville.

"That will do, Mr. Filch," McGonagall broke in, eyeing the four of them with harsh, unyielding temerity. "You four are guilty of breaking a very serious rule. Out of your Common Room at night; how dare you think of it?!"

Potter was being distinctly twitchy, looking from Tom, to the floor, to his own fists curled in front of him. Tom would have found this humorous were it not for the fact that he was currently trying to figure out where Potter had been all night.

"Tom!" McGonagall finally said sharply, and Tom was surprised that she had chosen to address him directly. That could probably have been the first time she did since she had appeared at the Foster home what seemed years ago. "Would you care to explain just what you and Mr. Longbottom were doing asleep in front of the Third Floor Corridor entrance at this hour of the night?"

He really had no sensible reply. He looked away, his self-admonishment returning with full fire. Neville grabbed his sleeve suddenly, but he didn't look at the other boy, knowing Potter's gaze rested shrewdly on the both of them.

"Well?" the Professor demanded, now looking at all four of them. "I suppose you were all out after hours on the same errand of mischief? Miss Granger?"

Hermione ducked her head, flushing to her roots.

McGonagall's mouth was white in its thinness. "Well, since none of you intend to speak up, should I assume it has something to do with the outrageous claim Mr. Malfoy brought before me this afternoon?"

Potter's head shot up.

Tom's mind was racing as he watched the Head of their house rise from her seat, leaning her long arms on the desk. She opened her mouth to speak, but it wasn't soon enough because Neville's hand dropped away from Tom's sleeve and he stepped forward. "Tom and I saw Harry leave; we were worried that Malfoy had heard about the…the tower."

Everyone was staring at Neville including Tom, who was outraged that Neville had come up with something so weak on his own. How could he be blind enough to assume he could lie his way out of this one if Potter would not vouch for them?

McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "So, Potter, the rumour about a dragon on the top of the highest tower wasn't restricted to Draco Malfoy's knowledge then, was it?"

Tom stared as Potter shot Neville a vicious look. Something was really amiss here, and he had a strange feeling that he'd been had.

It seemed McGonagall was cottoning on as well. "I think I have some idea of what's going on here. You meant for Draco Malfoy to be caught, but under the current circumstance of his having to be in the hospital wing tonight, he reported to me the cock-and-bull story you fed him. It seems the entertainment value of Tom and Neville hearing the story, and believing it, makes up for this minor setback. Right, Potter?"

There was guilt in those eyes; it was unmistakeable as Tom surmised how he had been so stupid. He had underestimated Potter, thought him miscalculating and blind. The entire thing had been Potter's way of testing if Tom was aware of him, watching him, suspecting him. It was too much for him to bear. He knew the boy-hero was looking at him, but he turned away. Neville face was blank, a rising anger behind those naïve blue eyes that only Tom recognised from much practise.

Tom, of course, could not possibly think about this in further detail as he was too busy trying not to swipe his wand out at the stupid, malicious little sod. He could very well kill just then.

"I am appalled," continued their Head of House. "Four students out of bed on one night? I thought the lot of you knew better! Potter, I was certain that Gryffindor meant more to you than this! And Tom…nothing excuses breaking the rules; I would advise you not to meddle in the affairs of other students in the future.

Tom looked up at her with these words. Anger, confusion-these things he felt, and none of it made sense. Why she was upset most of all at him, why was her gaze veiled with contempt and why had he, himself, fallen for such a childish trick. He clenched his fists and glared back at her, hoping to infuse as much venom as possible into his words. "This _was_ my own affair That-that…Potter! is putting the school in danger!"

Shock met this, and Tom kicked himself inwardly.

A pause followed, after which McGonagall sighed. "It is nice to know your loyalties are with the school and the school rules, however, you must also observe the policies. All four of you will receive detentions and fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor."

Tom barely heard the rest of the conversation. He was humiliated and just so very angry. Oh, the things he would like to put upon Potter the minute he could get him alone! Or forgetting that, he would kill him in full view of the school. "_Anything! Anything to make him feel the way I feel now!_"

It must have been about two o'clock am when they reached the Common Room. Neville had been uncharacteristically quiet the whole journey back, and Tom was relieved at this. He was practically craving a fight with anyone.

It seemed Potter had a death-wish. When they stepped through the portrait hole, Potter was standing there by the fire. Sinister, dark, and thoughtful was his demeanour as he turned to regard them. Hermione seemed to have gone to bed straight away, probably shaken from her first encounter with scholarly discipline. He felt Neville start forward, and by instinct, he flung out his hand to barricade the way. Neville let out a sound of injured rage, but he knew Tom too well, and he did not pursue his actions further.

Potter stepped forward, and his expression rearranged into contrition, and a welling of sickness rose in Tom's stomach.

"Look, Neville…Tom, McGonagall got it all wrong, I would never-I didn't want-"

He broke off as Tom, unable to contain the electric rage shooting up his arm, raised his wand. "Don't! You dare start with your fake ignorance! I am not about to fall for any of that!"

Tom lifted his wand to eye-level, beginning to circle Potter. Potter shook his head vigorously, taking another step toward him. "No! That's not it! Tom, you don't understand-I didn't _try_ to trick you; it was just- I didn't even know you thought…I wanted to tell you…."

Perhaps it might have been Potter's inarticulate behaviour that riled Tom even more. Neville, overcome with disgust, turned to the dormitory stairs. Potter said no words to stop him, and Tom was suddenly vaguely aware that Potter's deception was meant solely for him. "I know you were doing something tonight," Tom continued quietly. "And I will not be stupid enough to assume you're innocent like all the rest. I know what you've been up to; this doesn't mean I won't be guarding that corridor. Whatever your plan is,"-here Tom pointed his wand directly at Potter- "I'll be there to watch you fail."

Potter had stopped moving, staring at Tom in motionless silence. "Erm…what?" He seemed to think on this for a moment, and then sighing, he attempted a half-smile. "Look, we don't have to do this. This is a misunderstanding; I heard what Neville said to you about me." He hesitated. "I'm not worth being jealous over, really."

Wand forgotten, Tom took five sharp steps toward the Boy Who Was Idiotically Mistaken and punched him swiftly, dragging his knuckles against his opponent's chin. As Potter stumbled back into the armchairs by the fire, Tom grasped his fist, flinching horribly. His intention had been to hurt him as much as possible, but his own animal instincts had forgone the sense to use his wand. Bringing his knuckles to his mouth, trying to stifle the pain, he raised his wand in his left hand.

Potter's wand was out too as the boy scrambled from his position on the floor, smiles gone and replaced by an anger of his own. It meant nothing as Potter seemed to show no inclination to use his own wand. Rather, he abruptly tackled Tom, sending them both rolling into one of the study tables near the center of the Common Room. It would have taken some true will power in order for Tom to gather his wits enough to realise that retaliating would only serve to put him at an even deeper disadvantage. His bottom lip split open as the rough skin of Potter's knuckles collided with his teeth, and that was what made Tom shove his own elbow into Potter's gut, hoping to cause lasting damage. Unfortunately, it seemed that injury was not enough to put the other boy off as Potter used the palm of his hand to check Tom in his Adam's apple.

Generally, it was not a fight to be proud of. It was messy. Teeth, knuckles, nails, and sharp edges tore tender skin, and Tom was yelling because that pain didn't matter. What mattered to him right then was the pounding in his head each time he so much as touched the other boy. White heat struck across his forehead and his ears rang because Potter was yelling too.

Thinking of nothing but the fact that his head seemed to be splitting open, Tom crawled away from Potter and was only vaguely aware that the other boy had also scrambled away. A few seconds of silence followed. Potter was crouched a few feet away, panting and carefully massaging his skull while Tom knelt, leaning against a table leg, clutching his own head.

Time that may have been hours passed.

Tom leaned his head back, feeling rivulets of cold sweat run down his temple. He was going to be sick if he wasn't careful. He looked at Potter, who was still bent in a crouched position, resting his own head on the armchair's back.

"What…just happened?" Potter breathed between gasps.

Tom shook his head because if he spoke, he would be sick.

"D-Did you do that?"

Tom's head whipped up at the tone in Potter's voice; the distinct uncertainty. He felt it was safe enough to speak then. "How can I have done that, idiot?" he spat.

The dark-haired hero struggled to his feet, failed, and held the chair's arm, leaning his whole weight against it. "That doesn't prove anything to me," he snarled back.

Tom wished distantly that Potter would stop talking so he could think. "Look, just shut up, okay? I'm trying to make sense of this situation!"

Potter fell silent, looking at the stairs entrance to the dormitory. "Fine…and stop yelling. I'm surprised no one has come running down from all the noise we've been making."

Tom ignored him. This had not been the first time he had felt this pain. He remembered that day in potions; Snape turning his attention on Potter rather than him, and Tom had been so angry…and then, a little after Christmas when Neville came back. Those nightmares; he'd woken up every morning with that pounding headache, and it was much like this one, only… only Potter was feeling it too. _Then_, he thought, _am I now able to cause people pain just from getting angry?_ _Wait, that doesn't make complete sense. Why would I feel the headaches….unless…_

Tom turned to Potter who was beginning to look restless. "Potter, have you ever felt that before?"

He looked shifty. "I think you've done it to me before."

Tom frowned. "No, ingrate; I've been feeling them too. The headaches…" He paused as a thought occurred to him. He pushed himself up and advanced on Potter, who stumbled back and fell into the seat cushion. Ignoring Potter's spastic panic attack, Tom laid his palm on Potter's forehead, just right to where his fringe covered his scar.

"What are you doing?" Potter demanded.

Nothing. There didn't seem to be any reaction from the other boy or his own head.

Tom sighed, finding he was not too keen on keeping Potter's company for this long. "I'm going to bed," he said with some resignation and walked away.

* * *

"What happened to your lip?" Neville queried the next morning when Tom slipped out of bed. Potter, who was dressing, caught his eye and looked away.

"The Hogwarts beast attacked me," Tom replied evenly and was gratified to see Potter go an angry red.

Neville appeared unsure whether to laugh at this or not, but as Tom went to his trunk, Neville leaned down discreetly. "I used a bubble charm on the dorm entrances last night so you wouldn't be overheard."

Tom rounded on him. "What?" he hissed.

Neville gave a half-shrug, half-head duck. "I thought you would want to teach Harry a lesson," he whispered. "And it would have been bad if someone saw, right?"

Impressed as he was, his mood did not improve with the following week. Everyone was upset with those who had been out of bed the night before. Apparently, McGonagall had taken fifty points from each of them, putting Gryffindor last. People had taken to shoving Neville in the hallways with their shoulders or any available blunt object. They had tried it with Tom, but he had calmly sent a stinging hex their way using an electrical hybrid causing them to twitch the rest of the way down the corridor.

Also, there was detention. The following morning, owls delivered notes to Neville and him, detailing the time of their punishment. They were expected to meet Filch in the Entrance Hall at eleven o'clock that night. By the time, he trudged downstairs and saw Hermione standing beside sullenly Potter, his anger had simmered down to a dull ache in his stomach. Filch bombarded them with something that sounded like plebeian threats and empty stories of old violence. According to the horrible man's half-formed words and ravaged sneers, their detention was to take place in the Forbidden Forest with the Groundskeeper as their supervisor. Tom ignored this, and shook Neville's hand off his sleeve. If they were being sent _there_ then he had to be entirely focussed so as not to let Potter take advantage of the situation.

Even though Tom found himself taking these precautions first, he realised not soon after that there was distinct lack of conviction behind them. He had been speaking to Potter; heard the way he thought from his words. He even had a small taste of the boy's complete normality from the way he fought. He was subconsciously building other theories about the boy-hero. He wondered if possession was something that could be unconscious. That perhaps Potter was the Dark Lord and didn't quite know it or remember any of his actions as a Dark Lord.

They walked toward the Groundskeepers hut, and as they ambled along, Tom's mind was going a mile a minute. His new theory was beginning to make even more sense. The inconsistencies in Potter's behaviour. He had locked Hermione in with the troll and yet he had tried to save her, he had goaded Tom with his questions and hypothetical suppositions, and appeared clueless when Tom displayed more knowledge than he may have expected. Tom had to hand it to Hermione in that she once told him that no one could ever be as marvellous of a liar. Tom still wasn't completely convinced, but while he wasn't willing to decide that Potter was innocent, it was apparent that he wasn't a gifted liar, either.

Tom had never thought very much of Hagrid, the school Groundskeeper. All he really knew about him was that he worked at Hogwarts and just so happened to be attached The Boy Who Lived. At the moment, however, he was more concerned with the fact that Hagrid was indicating to them what seemed to be a silver substance clinging to the edge of some leaves.

"See that stuff shinin' on the ground? Silvery stuff? That's unicorn blood…."

Tom stared, listening as the Groundskeeper explained how he wanted them to split into two groups in order to find the unicorn that had shed the blood.

"Me, Harry an' Hermione'll go one way an' Tom, Neville, an' Fang'll go the other-"

"You're sending us off _alone_!" Neville cried suddenly and Tom stared at him. "What if the thing that got the unicorn comes after us?!"

Tom was just opening his mouth to explain quite scathingly to Neville that there was little need to worry as he could very well deal with any unicorn-wounding beast that might cross their path when Potter shrugged, stepped forward and said, "S'okay Hagrid. I'll go with Tom and Fang."

At this, Tom had to control his inner instinct, which wanted to huddle in something of a foetal position and cover his ears until Potter went away. Instead he shot Neville a look of complete and utter fiery, venom-tinged hate. Neville took the look seriously and backed into Hermione.

* * *

What Tom had first noticed about the Forbidden Forest was that the seasons seemed to glaze over it. It was still, dark, and silent all the time. It may perhaps have been the very reason why animals of strange nature chose to live there. The likely reason was that it was near Hogwarts, which according to _Hogwarts: A History _was unplottable.

Forced to endure Potter's company, Tom was determined to keep his wits about him in this strange place. They must have walked for more than thirty minutes through the brush, Tom stepping over a wayward root or a low hanging branch when Potter turned on him suddenly. "That night…I didn't realise until later on, but you mentioned the corridor. I just-" Potter broke off nervously, shifted his feet, then began walking again. "What exactly do you know?"

Tom caught Potter's arm as he moved forward, then pulled back like he had been scalded. "And I should tell you because?"

The crickets in the bushes around them twittered senselessly, and Potter seemed to struggle with some of his own incompetence. "Because…because it will be better if we can help each other."

"Help each other?" Tom echoed tonelessly, gently pushing Fang so the dog wouldn't tread on his shoes.

Potter seemed to take this as some form of agreement. "Yeah; Ron and Hermione know. I guess you've probably told Neville-"

"I have no intention of helping you!"

Potter looked surprised, which served to irritate Tom even more. "If we get into trouble for-for investigating things, they'll be more likely to believe our story," Potter implored.

"For some reason, that fails to inspire my confidence."

The darkness seemed to creep in on both of them as the wind changed direction. The leaves above rang with broken whispers as the cold night breeze shifted them. Tom started walking again, and Potter followed quickly, holding his wand-tip higher.

Finally, it seemed Potter could no longer take the other boy's ringing silence. "Look, what _is_ your problem with me, anyway?"

Tom stopped. He thought it was a stupid question. Tom told him so. Potter went quiet.

"Besides," Tom went on, "I'm not the only one who doesn't want…You-Know-Who to rise to power again."

Once again, Potter stopped walking, stopping dead. Tom looked at him for a bit. He knew his words would cause a bit of a jolt in the Dark Lord's protégé, but this may have been a bit much. "Voldemort…the Elixir of Life…of course!" the other boy whispered.

Tom was looking at him again, wondering whether evil might constitute madness. He didn't think this should be so. Absently, he gazed around, thinking that he needed to sit down and reconsider most of his theories because he had a feeling that Potter was merely crazy, and Voldemort was using him because of this.

"Wait!" Potter yelled. "How did you know it was Voldemort going after the stone?"

_Stone?_ was Tom's instant thought. "Well, I do not know of any other Dark Lords with easier access to the school. Isn't it painfully obvious, Potter?" Tom sneered, lifting his wand. "You were never subtle enough. Then again," he continued thoughtfully, "I'm better at deducing things than most people in this school. Perhaps the way you sneak about is enough to fool certain professors, but not me. And Voldemort's pathetic for choosing you."

The boy-hero stared at him, his wide green eyes blank and confused. "What? What do you-are you…what gave you-"He dithered about for a bit, and Tom gave him polite audience. Finally he seemed to lose all will to stammer, and settled with, "What?!"

"I have no more to say to you, Potter," he responded politely, and continued his walk, eyeing the sudden, more frequent spots of unicorn blood.

Potter would have kept at his infernal questioning were it not for the fact that he had also seen the trail of blood. Hauling Fang along, Tom and Harry moved. The trail led off the paths and soon they were traipsing through deep and sinister grass, wet and muddy earth, and prickly foliage- all of it stained, somehow, with that silvery glue-like blood. It was unnerving as the only light in the whole forest seemed to be their wand tips and anything beyond that was merely another corner to be turned or another hollow log to step over. Tom was expecting to come across the mystery beast at any moment from there. In fact, it seemed his expectation was so much that when a black pair of hooves bore down upon him out of nowhere, he was faced with the undignified reality that he had just yelped and had sat down flat in muddy earth.

Over a large hollow log, three centaurs galloped past them, their faces hidden in shadows as they moved into the misty dark. Potter gasped and Tom tried not to sink too far in the mud as he attempted to get up. His foot seemed to be stuck in a large swamp-like puddle He didn't bother looking around to see if Potter had fallen as well as he waved his wand at the mud around his foot, saying, "_Eximo!_" The deep and sucking mud slid away and Tom pulled his foot out, using a loose-hanging branch to pull himself up. Once he was on solid ground, he looked for Potter and realised quite suddenly that he was very much alone.

His initial reaction had been to ignore the fact and find his way back to the Groundskeeper in order to speed up the detention process. He said, "_Lumos_." and began to head in the direction of the path, but that was when it occurred to him that if he showed up without having made any effort to search for Potter, he may very well look like the bad guy in this situation. Sighing, he lowered his wand to the mud. He saw a clear set of haphazard footprints which undoubtedly belonged to the Boy Who Had Wandered Away. Feeling nothing but resignation, Tom took up the chase.

It was a moment before he realised that the splashes of blood were becoming less sporadic and appeared as if the animal had been thrashing about. Tom saw a clearing ahead through the tangled branches of an old oak tree. A glint of white caught his eye, but he couldn't make it out in the dark. There was movement and Tom raised his wand higher, and the light from what was undoubtedly Potter's wand-tip flashed and went out as he heard the other boy let out a strangled yell and abruptly Tom's head blasted with a ferocious pain.

As it cleared, he had only opened his eyes quick enough to see a palomino-like centaur canter off into the dark with what appeared to be Potter on his back. Tom kicked a stray root in frustration as he rubbed his forehead vigorously. _What is going on?

* * *

_

Exams came, and Tom did not _have_ to talk to Potter, which was a welcome relief as the confounded boy was too busy wandering around the school with a hunted expression; jumping at any loud noises. Tom didn't really care; he had Neville watching him anyway so Potter wouldn't have the opportunity to go steal the stone he mentioned that night.

Then, exams were over, and the suspense was nearly killing poor Tom. Potter was doing _nothing_, nothing whatsoever, and Tom watched and watched him and the school year was ending and McGonagall had explained to him that all students must go home at the end of the year. He could barely take it.

Then, it was happening. It was one of those empty, hot afternoons where everyone else was outside by the lake, and Tom had decided to take advantage of the situation in order to look over his exam question papers. This was before he realised that he had left his revision notebook downstairs in the Common Room. He went down to retrieve it and he had barely made it down the stairs when he felt he had to pause just around the corner. He heard Hermione's voice, shrill and worried, then he heard Potter. Taking care not to be seen, Tom peered around the wall. Potter was standing in front of the empty fireplace, which was nothing out of the ordinary. He often did that with his sharp, angry features superimposed on the equally angry light. Today, however with the fireplace now empty, Tom got a good look at his face. Potter was pale and his eyes were glazed, angry, and shocking.

"That's it, then, isn't it?" Potter was saying, looking at a place above their heads. "I'm going out of here tonight and I'm going to get to that Stone!"

Tom barely heard Hermione's and Weasley's cries of disagreement. He didn't even hear Potter's reply. He was already backing up the stairs, his dark eyes wide. He could hardly believe it! Potter was going after it that very night. Tonight, Tom would have the opportunity of stopping him. Anticipation filled him like a drug and he couldn't resist smiling as he quickly rushed back up the stairs

* * *

"What should I do to stop them?"

"Use any means necessary, but you have to make sure that Potter's friends don't make it there."

Neville swallowed. "Will I have to-to hex them-Hermione might be better than me…"

Tom hissed exasperatedly. "No, she's not! What have I been helping you for if you have no faith in what I've been teaching you! Hex them, hurt them- I don't care! Potter can't bring any allies; it will jeopardise the whole plan!"

They were standing in the Entrance Hall, watching as the students moved off to their Common Rooms from the Great Hall. Tom had accosted Neville there and had hurriedly minced his words as he explained his next plan. Neville, as usual, was not completely up to this new challenge. His lip was trembling, and he made his characteristic catch at Tom's sleeve. Once Tom characteristically shook his hand away, Neville nodded solemnly. "When are you leaving?"the smaller boy asked.

"Definitely before Potter does. Now go into the Common Room and keep watch!"

Neville left hurriedly, and Tom paused. As the late summer day drifted into the deep blue that was night, the castle began to darken and the fires of Hogwarts sprang up all at once. Yet, the night was stronger and the breezes that seemed to shift Hogwarts each evening flittered past Tom and he shivered. He had come to understand that this was not only about fame, justice, and legendary beings of incredible power. Hogwarts was Tom's true place; he belonged here as much as the clocks, the portraits, and the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall. All this spurred him on. It would be for this and more that Tom could confidently say to himself that Potter was not going to win tonight.

After one a.m. it was when he arrived there that he came across a most horrible realisation: Potter was already there and moving. The door to the Third Floor Corridor was wide open, the beast inside was letting out huge gusts of awful air as it snored and, near its feet, a harp stood plucking out what sounded like the last few bars to a lazy medieval song. Tom made his way around the massive paws that seemed to have been pushed aside just where the trapdoor lay open. Just as Tom looked down, he saw a flash of flame and the tail of a cloak whipping out of sight.

Without hesitation, Tom jumped down. Humid, foul-smelling air pressed on him from all sides as he plunged. The landing was abrupt, but he fell on what appeared to be a familiar plant. Some of its feelers were on fire, which had it flailing a bit. He assumed Potter had done that, and he slid quickly off the groaning plant and looked ahead to the dark passageway. Tom did not run down the passageway as his quarry appeared to have done mainly because he was intent on preserving his strength for defeating Potter. He walked briskly, his robes clinging to him due to the damp air. It was frustrating trying to remember the way as he turned corners, traipsed down downward paths, and made sudden rights and lefts.

Then he was in a bright chamber and a ringing noise filled his ears. He looked to the other end where there appeared to be a heavy, wooden door, and flying up from it was a huge flock of what looked like birds. Tom stepped into the middle and looked up at the birds. They were sparkling in the torchlight. He already knew they couldn't be there for the décor.

"_Immobulus_!" he bellowed, and abruptly the winged-creatures froze mid-air. He tried the Summoning Charm, but for some reason that didn't work. He knew the whole thing was like an obstacle course, so this meant that all the resources should be available. He looked around, and sure enough, there were broomsticks lined up along the wall. "Of course Potter would have no problem with this one," he muttered bitterly, reaching for one of them.

With a pained cry, Tom toppled out the other side of the door, the sound of those ravenous keys hitting the wood on the other side. His opinion on broomstick flying had not improved. Rubbing his shoulder, he stepped toward the centre of the new chamber. This one was so dark that he couldn't see an inch in front of him, however, the moment he set foot into the actual chamber, the room flooded with light.

Tom stepped back again. Towering over him and around him was a gigantic chess set. Behind the white pieces, Tom saw a door, but there was no way around the tall statuesque figures. Their faceless stone bodies stood shoulder to shoulder and it was obvious to Tom what he had to do, but there was a small snag to this, and the reality of it made him step back in a new alarm.

Tom had never played chess in his life.

His mind went back to the several times he had seen Weasley at his involved matches against Potter or any of the other students. The problem was that Tom had never really cared to pay attention, and there was absolutely no way he would be able to do this. Unless….

"_Semita!_" he shouted, swiping his wand at the pawn in front of him.

The white, faceless stone seemed to glare back at him.

"_Effrego!"_

Nothing.

"_Perfringo!"_

Nothing.

"_Lapsus!_"

Long minutes passed; perhaps an hour; maybe only ten minutes.

"_Fragor!_"

Tom knew it was far too late. Potter must have the stone, and he was there casting useless angry curses at the immovable statues blocking his way.

"_VERTOGLACIES!" _he cried as a last effort.

At the time, he was seated in the middle of the chessboard, merely trying the spell to see what would occur, but, like the others, it did absolutely nothing. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Tom let himself lay back on the cold marble of the chessboard. "You shall not be the victor, Potter," he murmured before closing his eyes for a moment.

It was the moment he closed his eyes that Tom realised that someone was in the chamber with him. He didn't move. If they were aware he knew of their presence, then it would be too late to stop them. _Potter,_ Tom thought, and he was certain of it, almost as if he could feel it.

Tom shot a quick leg-locking jinx and the resulting yelp was his prize. Opening his eyes, he was disappointed to see Weasley on the floor near him.

"Weasley?!"

"Get this curse off me, you!"

Tom looked around, and sure enough Potter was approaching with restrained caution. The two of them stared at one another for a moment in a strange, silent acknowledgment. "You came," Potter said, and Tom could have spit in his anger. _Even now, he would still pretend!_ He stood up, dusting off his trousers, and no, he didn't remove the curse from Weasley. He pointed his wand at Potter.

"You'll have to get through me before you take that stone!" he snarled, ensuring he sounded confident, poised. It didn't matter if the Dark Lord was ten times stronger, Tom would find a way.

"What are you talking about?!" Weasley demanded from the floor.

Potter was gazing at him, and slowly very slowly, a light seemed to dawn in those bright green eyes. "You think it's me…you think _I've_ been trying to take it." He said this with a tone of wonder and disbelief and Tom was very much taken-aback.

"That's why you're here, aren't you?" he returned, but he was uncertain. "I heard you say it in the Common Room; you've been at it all year-of course you want to take the stone!"

Potter, who had taken out his wand, lowered it to his side. "No, I never was. I was after-after someone else. I want to stop Voldemort getting the Philosopher's Stone. _That's_ why I'm here…"

He wouldn't believe it. There was no way! "If I can trust you," he breathed, holding out his hand. "Give _me_ the stone, and _I'll_ carry it upstairs."

"As if we would trust you to carry it, skulking about all the time, tailing Harry and us, _spying_!" Weasley cried, still trying to struggle out of the jinx.

He had had it with Potter's lackey snapping at him as if he had risen to some higher rank just from following Harry Potter. "_Silencio!"_ he ordered the red-head, and Weasley was left mouthing his threats.

"Don't! Don't attack him, Tom! How do you already know all these things?" Potter queried suddenly, dumbstruck.

"I'll attack him if I like, and it's because I actually study, Potter!"

"Hermione studies, a lot of people study, but they don't do as well as you do; what are you doing different?"

Tom hesitated. _What is this?_ "I…I don't know; everything comes easily to me. I suppose it's like you and your flying, isn't it?"

"Maybe. Anyway, the reason I can't give you the stone is because I don't have it. I haven't been in there yet."

Tom's wand arm dropped to his side. "You haven't gone in? How is that possible? I saw you!"

"You saw me go in there?!"

He stopped, and it hit him. Now everything was actually making sense, but apart from feeling relief, Tom was crest-fallen. How could he have been so mistaken? All year someone else was after the Philosopher's Stone and he could have caught them, but he had wasted the whole year tailing an innocent person with no results. And here he was, looking the fool in front of the boy who actually _was_ the saviour of the Wizarding World. The boy who stood there in that chamber, wand in hand, no more than eleven years old, prepared to face off an enemy he knew nothing about. It was pure nonsense, and it crushed Tom to an endless degree.

There was a moment before he realised he had sat down, hard, on the marble floor. It should be a relief; it should be something worth celebrating that his arch-nemesis was no longer an incompetent boy of his own age. Someone stronger, more powerful, much more _deadly_ awaited him. And, instead, there was panic, needless panic in his blood as his heart raced and he felt that he couldn't breathe, a feeling of impending death rose up in him and that scared him, dear God, it scared him to death and he wanted to hide, anything to keep what he felt coming towards him at bay….

A hand on his shoulder.

"Tom? Will you help us?" Potter said in a strange tone; it was not one usual for a boy his age. Tom recognised in it the same persuasiveness he frequently used himself.

"We could die down here, don't you see that, Potter?"

"I'm not afraid to die for the right things," he replied firmly, and for a wild moment, Tom felt he was about to hyperventilate again. _How can someone just say that? Die for the right things?__Just stop existing so something else can take your place?__That's mad!_

But Potter went on. "But I don't want any of my friends to die. I don't know how it is with you and Neville, but I know Neville wouldn't want you to die either."

Tom only stared at him.

"Tom, when we met Neville in the Common Room, he tried to stop us, and he told me what you did, how you wanted to keep the school safe, and Neville was scared for you- that _I_ wanted to hurt you. He would've injured Ron and he hurt Hermione, but I told him I wouldn't let anything happen, and we're here. Maybe…maybe we won't misunderstand each other anymore?"

He rose, and undid the incantation on Weasley, and the red-head was still silent, but he got up. Harry gave something like a shrug that was almost sheepish as he looked at Weasley, and the red-head hit him on the shoulder.

"Now, it looks like we have to play our way across, am I right?" Potter prodded, tucking his wand in his corduroys.

* * *

Potter did end up saving the day. He entered the chamber alone, and Tom didn't think he would ever know what really happened in there. It was clear to everyone else, though, that Potter had saved the Wizarding World again, surreptitiously keeping the stone from the greedy hands of their former DADA teacher and most of all, Voldemort.

And during the Leaving Feast, Tom sat in the Common Room.

He had not spoken to Potter since that night, and he didn't see any reason for doing so. The mystery was over, and still things did not make sense. Voldemort _had_ been after the stone, but he had used their DADA teacher, and it seemed Potter knew all the while and was tailing them or something like that. On the night he chose to go down into the trapdoor, the trio sneaked out after midnight, but were accosted by Neville who waited for them in the Common Room, silencing charms in place. And Neville, which Tom thought was just superb, had managed to finally create his own Curse hybrid, managing to mix the Shattering charm with the Infragum jinx, which broke Hermione's leg. Once Potter had assured Neville that he meant no harm, Neville agreed to take Hermione to the hospital wing, leaving Potter and Weasley to run down and find him, Tom.

This was all very well and good, but Tom was troubled. This was owing to the idea of Potter having no connection to Voldemort besides that scar on his forehead, which had lent to mind the worrisome question of: who was it _really_ that Professor Dumbledore and McGonagall had been discussing were discussing so heatedly.

And…he felt he had to know.

* * *

The train was noisy just as it had been the previous September. Neville sat across from him, though, using some hidden wisdom and choosing not to speak at all. Trevor croaked from his position on the window sill, and Tom stared vacantly out the train window as the whistle began to blow.

His peace could only last so long.

"Tom?"

"What is it, Neville?" he returned tonelessly, staring out at the now distant towers of Hogwarts.

"We really did good this year…didn't we?"

Tom didn't say anything at first; he pulled his jacket closer around himself. "If you're referring to our grades then yes, your Gran will be happy to hear that you were third in our year.

"And that I'm best friends with the boy who came first," Neville added smugly, and Tom didn't understand why _he_ was so smug about it. "Anyway, that's not what I meant. I'm talking about what happened…with the Third Floor Corridor."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Neville."

"Ah," he replied shyly, and went very quiet.

Until Tom heard a sniffle. He turned from the window, looking incredulously at him. Neville hadn't cried in ages because he _knew_ what Tom would say, or even worse _do_, in response. This time, though, he looked at the little round boy who was giving little gasps and hiccoughs, wiping his eyes quickly, and Tom realised that he didn't mind the other boy crying so much because…Tom had never really cried himself, never really shed tears over anything, but right then, as the train rolled away from his home, his _place_, Tom would have done so. He _would_ have, if he could.

Standing up, he looked down at Neville sternly. "We'll do better next year, I promise you."

He left their small compartment, and wandered down the hall, looking for nothing, really, but knowing his choices were this or sitting with Neville as he vented all those pent up emotions. He didn't have the patience at the moment. Or so he thought, until he passed a compartment and Potter rapidly stepped out, as if he had been waiting for him.

Tom turned because he wasn't going to run away. The summer holidays would give him time to think, to reassess, but for now, he would bear this one conversation.

"What is it?"

Potter grinned, and Tom took two calculated steps back. "I've realised something."

"Sorry?"

"I've realised something," Potter continued, "the reason why you probably don't like me-yes, I know you don't like me."

Tom stared at him.

"It's because we're a lot alike, but different too."

"I don't know what-"

Potter's eyes were boring holes in Tom. "No, no, let me finish. We're basically the same, both orphans, both of us wanted to save Hogwarts this year, and...we both get weird headaches, but that bothers you because I do things differently, and you don't want anyone to compare us."

Tom was frowning. "You're very wrong. Don't presume to understand me or what I think."

Potter returned the frown. "I didn't 'presume' anything. We'll leave it at that, I guess. You and I are basically the same; we can leave it at that, can't we?" Seeming to give up, he turned back to the compartment.

Tom watched him step inside, and he didn't know what made him say it, but he did. "I can speak to snakes," he said softly. The books in the library had said that one in every three thousand wizards and witches could do the same. This was one thing he could do that Potter could never match.

Potter froze, stood there, and then turned slowly to face Tom. He had a very strange expression on his face. "Oh. Really?" he answered in a very polite way. Then he put on his familiar grin. "So can I."

Out of the three thousand or more students at Hogwarts, Tom should have known that the only other one who could speak to snakes had to be _Harry Potter._

_

* * *

_

**A/N-Next up, BOOK 2. I shall approach with caution, but not too much caution because what's a Slytherin without a little daring...or...dear God, isn't that a Gryffindor trait? Hmm, find out next chapter! cackles madly**


	6. Chapter Five

**A/N- I'm alive! So is Tom! And we're ready for Book 2! Enough announcements; let's do this shit!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, Tom would wear jeans.

* * *

  
**

_**-Time Or Manner-**_

_**Part Two**_

**Chapter Five**

Tom was one of the few who didn't do his kitchen chores because he had far better ways of passing his time. There was always an air of tension on Sunday afternoon as the other children wandered about the place doing their chores and/or playing while Tom sat outside on the front step, reading his huge tomes or making notes in his notebook. It was a truth well-known within Bonny's foster home that if anyone approached Tom with the idea of chores, they would suffer something grave. And those who had taken it upon themselves to do the tasks Tom would have been expected to do, would find themselves immune to any unfortunate accident.

Bonny, herself, didn't know about this arrangement. She would write up her charts, and though she never actually _saw _Tom at his task, each job she assigned him would nonetheless be completed first. The pantry was rearranged, the kitchen floor swept, and the mirrors in the hall were shining with Windex.

This was why Tom sat at the kitchen table that afternoon, knowing full well that it would not perturb anyone; especially not Bonny. He was quite right for, upon spotting him, she smiled and set down her dish towel. "All done, Tom?" she remarked lightly.

He didn't reply. Bonny knew very well that he didn't care to make conversation when he was reading.

She was just about to sit when there was a crash from upstairs and little three year old Bernice was crying from her playpen. Davey pounded down the stairs, yelling a song at the top of his lungs, and Emily came around from the living room, saying something along the lines of, "Bernice threw her toy at me!"

Bonny sighed, and she wandered away to deal with the Sunday tradition of no rest for her whatsoever. A few moments later, she came back in with Bernice in her arms, who was kicking and whining. Tom tapped his quill against his pocket notebook a bit peevishly. The telly in the living room suddenly began blaring about the house, and Emily was shouting again. Davey ran into the living room and began singing along to the theme of a show where some Jack-Russell terrier told stories.

Then Georgia, one of the new girls about his age, walked in complaining that the downstairs computer wasn't working. Tom shut his book without a word, and stood up. Tom knew Bonny was watching, but he didn't care all that much. His main goal was to tuck his small notebook in his jeans pocket and make it outside. He needed a walk; a_nything_ to get him out of this place where he so clearly didn't belong.

The heat outside was sweltering, and Tom back-tracked for only a moment as he opened the front door. In the close distance between the door and the living room, he could still hear Davey shouting and his resolve kicked in, pushing him out the door and to the sidewalk. The sun overhead burned down on his black hair making the tendrils cling to his temples. He ignored all this, and pulled at the collar of his white t-shirt; he didn't usually sweat like this, but the humidity from yesterday's rain had lingered to heighten the sweltering heat.

Somewhere down by the next block, there was a park. Tom thought it might be something of a relief to walk there; watch the trees, experience a little breeze. The problem, Tom often thought, with living in a suburban area was the fact that there was no escape. One might walk for blocks and blocks down those hot streets and still find no way around the repetition until one couldn't even identify the house one lived in because all of them looked the same. Kicking a stray pebble, Tom decided that he _would_ walk down another block to the park.

He had only paused because he noticed his shoe-lace was untied. Frowning, he bent down and sought to fix this small problem. It was as the tips of his fingers grazed the cement beneath his stray shoe-lace that he heard the shrubbery beside him exclaim, "Tom!"

He turned and gave the shrubbery a very appalled glance. Upon squinting and looking much more closely, his heart jumped into his throat. A pair of brilliant green eyes were staring up at him from between the tiny leaves.

Harry Potter rose from his crouching position, sweaty, filthy and grinning. "What are you doing here?" he demanded in a most delighted manner.

Tom looked at Potter for a long, disbelieving moment, and then his eyes flickered toward Potter's place of habitation. It appeared that the boy had been sitting between two hedges, digging away at something with his now discarded spade. Behind Potter, there was a house much like the rest of the houses on the suburban street, white and powder blue with a clean green lawn and two wide squares of begonias lining the path to the front door. "I should ask you the same question," Tom finally countered, glaring pointedly at Potter's frames which appeared to be smudged with dirt.

The boy-hero seemed suddenly self-conscious. "I-I live here. I was…just doing some gardening work for my aunt."

Tom's mouth thinned. "You _live_ here?"

Potter nodded.

"Here on this street?" It was no struggle to keep his tone light, however, he was about three inches away from his own quiet form of histrionics, but it was best not to think on it.

The messy-haired gardener gave one of those little laughs that Tom found so grating. "Yeah. I live here on this street." He paused, clearly a bit slower on the uptake. "Wait, do you live nearby?"

It took Tom a moment before he could remind himself that he was no longer supposed to think of the boy-hero as Voldemort, and he pointed in the general direction of the two blocks down. "Down there, by Honeyberry Drive."

It seemed the generally sensible thing to do was walk away; find some excuse to disappear. "I was just on my way to…"

Potter brightened. "I'm just finishing up here. If it-can I…If you're not in a hurry, I'll go with you!"

Tom blamed circumstance. It wasn't fair, really, that he was missing Hogwarts a lot. It also wasn't fair that other Wizarding children went home to live with their magical parents, while he had to return to his pedestrian world of day-time television, social workers, and absolutely, under all circumstances, _no magic_. And here was Harry Potter, the magical mascot of the Wizarding World, and Tom understood Potter's delight to see him, understood his hunger to talk about Hogwarts and to distance himself from the Muggle world, a place where he must feel as out of place as Tom himself felt.

"It should be cooler at the park," Tom said, and was irritated to realise that his usually available polite smile and cheery tone had been replaced with a grim expression and a gruff voice. It was possible that he felt silly attempting to be polite when it seemed to be lost on Potter. What was the use brooding over it, though? He stepped through the shrubbery and settled himself on the garden bench as Potter went at it with the spade again.

Then a most unfortunately obese boy with a lank head of hay-coloured hair wandered up the driveway, only hesitating to throw a football at Potter's head. Tom gave a start of surprise, unsure of what he could do to prevent the coming collision, but Tom's own movement seemed enough warning for the boy-hero as he readily ducked his head and the ball travelled through the shrubbery.

"Go and fetch it!" the blonde pig called across the lawn.

Potter turned, and fixed a hateful stare on the other boy. "You threw it; _you_ go fetch it!"

The other kid seemed to be waiting for this and- not wasting any time besides the prospect of carting his own weight forward- waddled up the front step and opened the front door. "Mum!" he hollered into the house. "Harry threw my ball into the street!"

Tom heard a voice from inside reply; it sounded something like the screech of a deranged cat. He glanced at Potter, who wore a slightly embarrassed grimace.

It was upon the large boy's pronouncement that a woman emerged from the house. Thin and pinched, she seemed nearly alien as she pointed her broom at the hero of the Wizarding World. "_What have I told you about playing with Diddums' things!"_

"I wasn't playing with anything of his. He threw it at me!"

"Diddums" appeared to think he was an excellent actor as he covered his eyes and let out a meaningless and dry sob. "I didn't throw nothing at him!"

It made sense, though. The boy was all too clearly a boy-scout; offering to do the chores, breaking his back with the outdoor work. Tom concluded that the aunt must be some invalid who took great pleasure in having her nephew do everything at her command. And Potter, the idiot, let her push him about as he pretended he could never possibly do anything to retaliate. As if he had not defeated the most powerful Dark Wizard of the last century. It all made Tom quite ill.

The extremely mad, prudish woman descended on the blonde pig. "It's okay, Diddums," she crooned, and Tom stared in disbelief as she whirled on Potter, who had thrown his spade at the dirt beside him. "You! Go away and think about what you've done. You can bet Vernon will deal with you this evening!"

"Fine!" Potter spat back at her. He whirled on Tom, who was still sitting in the shade of the hedges. "Let's go!"

Tom thought it wise not to say anything even as the "witch"- in the sense of the word-called out, "And don't be bringing any of your friends about either!"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry Potter practically stomped the whole way to the park, and Tom found himself following along uncertainly. He'd found the entire scenario to be very disturbing, but more interesting was the way Potter seemed to emanate a faint electricity as his fists remained clenched at his sides and he stomped down the empty street. Tom noticed with some appreciation that the hedges and tree branches seemed to lean the other way as he made his way down the street.

They reached the park and Potter's foot connected frankly with a rubbish can, which fell over and rolled a little ways away. Tom sat down in the shade and looked at the other boy for a short moment. He knew that at a time like this he was supposed to say something; something which would offer a modicum of comfort, but he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't make him sound like a complete pill. He watched Potter settle on the swings set, breathing heavily.

Tom reached for his pocket to pull out his little notebook and resume his work, but something stayed his hand. Rather, he stood from his spot by the tree and walked toward the swing set. Grumpily, he took a seat on the swings next to the other boy. Potter didn't look at him, and Tom sighed. "Muggles," he said with a definable note of derision.

The Boy Who Lived didn't laugh, but the sound he made was amused, and Tom's smile was not polite this time. It was real.

And it was all so strange; it was just so incredibly odd. They were soon sitting underneath the tree nearly without shade on the yellowing grass and they were talking. Not always comfortably, of course, but when Tom spoke, Potter leaned forward with interest, and Tom found he was curious to know what Potter had to say. Tom leaned against the huge maple, and Potter lay back on his elbows, not at all mindful of the grass stains on his own white t-shirt.

"Neville hasn't sent you any owls, has he?" Potter queried lightly.

Tom frowned. "The idiot sent me four owls within the first week asking me how my summer was doing. It was becoming too conspicuous, so I wrote him back telling him to sod off." He was expecting some answer to this, but Potter was quiet and Tom looked at him in askance. The boy-hero was suddenly looking forlorn. Tom didn't know what to make of it, which was also annoying because, like Potter's anger, his sudden sorrow caused a sudden droopiness in the vegetation about them and the shade fled. It was affecting Tom's mood as well, which was especially a nuisance. "What is it?" he demanded irritably, eyeing the drooping branch above his head.

Potter sighed, a very helpless sound that served to irritate Tom further. "Hermione and Ron haven't written me at all. I 'spect it may be that they're too busy. Still, after three weeks…"

Tom's brow rose. Surely Potter wasn't all that attached to them. He didn't really know how to respond to this, but what with Potter's moods being contagious and all, he felt he _should_ say something. "Maybe you should owl _them_."

Bright green eyes fixed on him, and Tom pretended that something behind the other boy's head demanded his interest. "M-my uncle and aunt-well, you saw her- they _really_ don't like magic. They locked my owl up along with all my things. They think it's something foul; unnatural."

Tom couldn't contain his outrage at this. "If anyone tried to tell me _I_ was unnatural, I'd turn their very insides into an abnormality!"

Potter's mouth curled into a grudging smile, probably guiltily imagining the prospect. "Too bad we can't do magic outside school," is what he settled with.

Tom agreed, but he was still seething at the thought that _non-magic_ people who had been given the privilege to look into the Wizarding World, _his_ world could dismiss it. Something had definitely gone wrong with the way the Wizarding community was dealing with these Muggles. Of what benefit would it be if children from non-magical families joined the Wizarding community every year and, instead of regarding this occurrence with awe, their families looked down on them for having the ability to do magic. Even he, Tom, had to keep it hidden from Bonny and the rest, causing him deep discomfort. The very moment he was allowed to do magic outside school, he would address this issue.

Tom wondered a little what Potter would do when he had the opportunity to get his revenge. He decided to mince his words, though. "What will you do once you're done with those Muggles you live with?"

Potter shrugged. "I had hoped that I could stay at Hogwarts for the summer, but –"

"-school policy says that students must go home for the summer break," Tom finished for him, twitching irritably.

They both stared off, bleakly contemplating this fact. Suddenly Potter looked back at Tom. "What about you? Erm…the people you live with, how are they?"

Normally, Tom would have changed the subject. He knew from grade school that living in a foster home was considered a disadvantage; about the same as living in an orphanage. Yet, Potter's situation was far worse than his own, and he knew that if the other boy chose to show contempt, then he could throw it right back at him with his horrible family. "That foster home on Number Six Honeyberry Drive; I live there. Bonny runs the house alongside her mother, who visits in the evenings," he replied tonelessly.

"Oh? What are they like?"

He thought of Bonny, who was temperamental and ignorant. He had only moved in with her a year ago, but unlike the other fosters, she was an idealist and despite all he did to unsettle her, she persevered with her foolish dogmatic kindness and strained smiling. Tom also thought of the woman whom they were forced to call, "Nanny," and he cringed. She had them memorising Bible verses each week, accosted them if they appeared to have any consort with Satan's subjects. He wanted to explain to Potter how little he thought of both women, but to explain would only make him frustrated and being frustrated irritated him beyond anything else. "I wish to leave there as soon as I can. Foster homes are not nice," he muttered.

The other boy nodded.

Tom didn't quite know why, but he was relieved when the other boy hadn't given him a sympathetic look. It was almost as if he _knew_ and Tom didn't have to explain to him. Yes, it was a huge relief. He smiled. "I bet you're just dying to try a thing or two on that blonde pig at your house," he remarked.

Potter fell back laughing, and his eyes were still bright, almost like he was looking directly at the sun. "When I went to Hogwarts, I thought I was done being bullied, but then there was Malfoy…"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Do not proceed to tell me that you think Malfoy is _your_ bully; you, the great hero of the Wizarding World."

He had not been able to keep the sarcasm from his tone, but Potter only grinned as he looked back at Tom. "Oh, shut up! Ha ha! No, you're right. He _is_ a right little twit, isn't he?"

"He is. _Neville's_ taking care of him, though."

Potter was then looking at him with a new expression. "Hermione says you're the reason Neville's realised he's a genius."

He grinned, liking that at least Hermione had been good for something. "His problem is his memory; it's possibly just a temporary thing. He will learn as we go along."

"It's really nice of you."

Tom could not resist shooting him a scathing look. "It's not about being 'nice', Potter."

Potter back-tracked. "Right, of course. He's your mate."

The feeling of agreement was broken, and Tom felt estranged once more because Potter was too naïve. "It's not that, either," he replied quietly.

A silence fell between the two of them, and Tom drew his knees up, hating most of the world. Potter only appeared lost; he looked around helplessly before he pounced on the nearest subject. "Snakes!" he bellowed.

Tom started, and then squinted at the boy-hero, whom he was still certain was not a little crazy. "What?"

"On the train, you told me that you could talk to snakes! It made me think, aren't there other wizards who can do that?"

Tom pursed his lips. "I've known about it since I was young; I didn't feel the need to read that much on it. The books at Hogwarts say it's a rare gift, difficult to learn as it is hereditary more often than not. You and I are Parselmouths, and I believe the language is called Parseltongue."

"A rare gift?" the other boy whispered, "I always thought it went hand in hand with being a wizard."

Tom scowled and looked away. "There are those meant to be set apart, Potter. That's you and I." He looked speculatively at the other boy for a moment before leaning forward conspiratorially. "Have you learned to speak it on demand yet?"

Potter shook his head, but he was seemingly enthralled as he leaned forward as well. "I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin at the zoo once- long story- but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil so I sort of set it free without knowing it. That was before I knew I was a wizard…"

"A boa constrictor told you it had never seen Brazil?" Tom repeated incredulously, then he laughed, finding the whole idea too ridiculous.

Harry Potter seemed to find Tom's laughter gratifying, and he settled back with a smile. "If you can do it on demand, say something to me in Parseltongue."

Well, since he'd asked…"_You have dirt on your glasses_."

Potter reached for his glasses and pulled them off, rubbing them against his shirt vigorously. He looked up and laughed a bit, still wiping at the stray dirt. "That was cool."

Tom would have responded, but at the point where Potter had looked at him, glasses off-green eyes bare, Tom had suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. How could glasses act as such a shield that, when a person removed them, it made the person seem vulnerable, almost naked? He waited patiently for Potter to put his stupid glasses back on before he looked up again.

"You try it now," he prodded after some time.

Potter paused, staring at Tom for a moment. "It's hard. I can't do it without seeing a snake. You don't look anything like a snake."

Tom smiled at this. "The trick is to think of a synecdoche that you can apply to snakes."

"A what? "

Tom's frown reappeared. "Just think of scales in your mind."

Potter's eyes shut, and there was a lengthy silence. Tom took the pause and used it to examine the boy in front of him. He was still as scruffy as the first day he laid eyes on him. His hair was a riot with his cheeks smudged with soil and his bare arms caked with dirt in some places. His blue jeans were grass-stained and dusty, but he lay there, completely relaxed and easy-going, even though the world expected him to put an end to all the chaos. Tom thought the public adulation was a waste, though, because people were letting him get by on reckless determination and passion instead of teaching him the importance of self-control. Tom knew that _he_ could have done an even better job had he been more informed. That was over, though. He had only to focus on school…

Finally, Potter's wide eyes opened and focussed on Tom.

"_You seem to know everything, but you do not let on just how much you know unless it is necessary to do so. I thought you might be a bit of a pill, but you did not take __anyone__ with you into that _trapdoor, and that was really brave._ I would have done the same thing. This is what makes you interesting."_

That came as quite a surprise to Tom, but he understood it immediately. Parseltongue wasn't a human language, and there was no need for contractions or slang. Potter spoke it naturally, hissing out eloquence he could never manage when he was speaking normally. Tom realised this even as he processed the sounds. His own reaction was insensible, no, ridiculous even. Tom was used to compliments; Bonny sometimes said he was smart; Hermione told people that he'd been kind and generous. Neville made it a habitual thing to sing his praises. Even the professors couldn't resist giving a weak-willed smile at his ingenuity. This, though…it made him shudder. Hisses still hanging sombrely about them as Potter's words sat between them; it all just made him so….

He just hoped that the heat he was feeling from his cheeks to his ears wasn't showing. God, this was awful.

_Potter_ had moved on, though. He was grinning, falling flat on his back in the grass, seemingly proud of himself. "How was that? It`s not as hard as I thought it would be."

Tom was wishing that he had never told Potter about it. "Yeah," he said slowly.

The other wizard went quiet for a while, and after some time of slow, steady breathing, Tom realised that Potter had fallen asleep right there on the yellow grass. He opened his mouth to prod him awake, but he stopped. "_Why would I want him awake_?" he thought scathingly. Settling into a much more comfortable position, he pulled out his pocket notebook and pen.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was as the air turned cooler that Tom realised the afternoon had passed quite quickly. "It's six o' clock," he remarked loudly after checking his watch. The idiot had slept in Tom's company for three hours.

"Hmm, wha..?" was Potter's foggy reply.

"It's six o' clock," he repeated.

He watched Potter stretch and roll over. _He`s like a dog_, Tom thought unpleasantly. _I should throw something at his head._ Despite the fact that Tom knew very well that one didn't throw things on a whim, he still felt a little vindictive at the fact that he must have been boring enough for Potter to fall asleep so suddenly. He was eyeing a few sharp pebbles by his foot when Potter sat up, yawning loftily. Tom concluded that the boy-hero probably just had a short-attention span, and could be excused.

"I should go," said Potter, now quite awake. He stood, brushing stray strands of grass off his shirt without much effect. "My uncle gets a little…they don't like me to be out."

Tom only asked because he was curious. "What do they do if you're not on time?"

Potter paused, and seemed to retreat in on himself. "Nothing, really," he replied.

This made Tom angry, and he stood up, tucking his notebook away. "They have no idea what you're capable of…and you've let that go on too long."

The other boy's green eyes narrowed. "What would I do? I'm not-I wouldn't…I don't _do_ things like that."

"It seems…that you've no idea what you can do either."

"What I can do?" He seemed to think about this uneasily. "Look, I know it sounds like I did something great last June, but I just got lucky…" He trailed off thoughtfully.

Tom folded his arms, examining Potter. "That's not what I meant, Potter; I didn't defeat any Dark Lords last June, but I know how to deal with people like your aunt and uncle."

Potter seemed extremely uncomfortable suddenly. "Like you deal with the Muggles you live with?" he asked softly.

"They know I'm not to be contended with. It's the reason why I could leave the house, why I'm still out here, _why I'm not running back to them_," he spat.

A stiff silence passed, and Potter's expression was dark. "I'm not running back to them. I just…"

Tom smirked. _People were so silly sometimes._ "Tell me something, Harry Potter; if given the choice, wouldn't you like to pay them back for what they've done to you?"

He was uncomfortable again and Tom could tell as Potter crossed his arms and stared at his trainers. "They just…"

"You can't explain their actions, can you? You say they do it because they hate magic. Well, what right have they to make you hate the very thing that makes you what you are! _I _wouldn't stand for it, I know that. If you could, you'd show that aunt of yours what she's done to you, you'd let that pig of a cousin suffer, throw footballs at _his_ head, make _him_ run after them."

It wasn't a nod, but it wasn't a shake of his head either. Potter's eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. "I'd probably do some awful things to them, but it's not as if I would, _really_."

Now it was Tom's turn to frown. "Why not?"

Silence greeted this question as Potter thought about this. The pause was so lengthy that twice Tom opened his mouth as if to say, "Forget it," but he truly _was_ curious to know how the Hero of the Wizarding World intended to brave his own burden.

Finally Potter looked up, a determined, unwavering electricity in those green eyes. "Remember that time you asked me about my parents?"

Tom nodded.

"You said something about how being an orphan wasn't what made you special, but what you do to overcome it. That was the part of what you said that I agreed with. I think that getting past this without turning out like them…I think that's how I'm going to overcome it."

It was like a slap in the face. His own words used against him, and he cringed inwardly. "I-" he began, "I don't think your parents died so you could allow your relatives to display that kind of contempt for magic."

Pause.

"I suppose not, but I know I don't have to take vengeance on them."

"And your parent's killer?"

Potter's eyes were no longer green and Tom marvelled at how easily the darkness of the other boy's mood spilled into his irises. "Voldemort? Him, I _want_. He…needs to be destroyed."

There was a moment before Tom realised that he'd started to shiver; he shoved his hands in his pockets so Potter wouldn't see his hands shaking. You're really strange, Potter," he murmured, looking out at the orange sky behind the boy-hero.

An abrupt grin broke the cold, and Potter's shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug. "You're not so ordinary either," he replied smoothly.

Tom couldn't help it; he laughed a little, shutting his eyes so as not to look at the other boy. "No, not ordinary. Never that."

"Tomorrow, then? I can meet you here," Potter added, leaning back and forth on his shoes.

Tom opened his eyes, and Potter was only a silhouette against the sunlight. He wanted to say, "So I can sit here while you sleep again?" He even wanted to say, "No thanks, Potter; I've had my share of bad company." However, when his mouth opened…

"I'll probably be here after noon."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Then my hair just grew back again. That's what I meant when I said my magic was weird and a little random. I couldn't control it, but it was always there."

Tom shook his head in disbelief at this. Potter's childhood had certainly been a weird one, what with teachers' wigs turning blue, random leaps onto the roof and shrinking sweaters. It seemed like a series of comedies.

"What about you? When was the first time you did magic?"

Tom sized Potter up as he often did whenever he asked a serious question. Should he tell him? Was it really worth keeping a secret? "When I was three," he replied shortly.

"How can you possibly remember?"

Tom pulled three blades of grass from the earth. One. Two. Three. He was sitting cross-legged, and he set them on his left shoe. He quietly wiped them away. "Potter?" he said after a moment.

"Hmm?"

"I know a spell that makes it so your lungs cannot expand. It's a slow way to die, but gives a person time to make a quick decision."

After a week of this, Potter was almost used to Tom's off-colour remarks. He pursed his lips. "Yeah, what of it?"

Tom smiled. "If I hear that _anyone_ knows of what I am about to tell you, I'll use that spell on you."

He expected Potter to express some form of fear, even alarm, but the other boy only scowled. "I don't go blathering about whatever people tell me," he snapped. "I reckoned you wouldn't tell anyone what I told _you_."

Tom scoffed. "Almost being sorted into Slytherin is hardly a secret."

"But it's my secret! And I told you because I trust you."

This threw Tom a bit, but he didn't let on. "Still. You will have to tell me something with a little more weight to make it even."

"Fine," Potter snapped. "You go first, though."

Tom hesitated, but he nodded after a moment. He could always promise to hex Potter as soon as they got to school if he didn't follow through. "This foster home is the longest I've ever stayed somewhere. Every time one of my incidents happened, I would be moved because most of those Muggles couldn't handle what I did."

"What did you do?"

Tom fixed his eyes on Potter, deciding that he would not blink. "It started with conjuring. I was cold, sitting in the playpen with the other children. The fireplace was across the room; the fire was burning, but I was still cold. I suppose it was my intention to move the fire closer. My magic resulted in the injury of four children, and the death of one. The house burnt down from the fire I conjured, and my social worker transferred me." He looked away. "My childhood is nothing like yours, Potter, with wigs turning blue or shrinking sweaters. My magic was concentrated, and sometimes angry. I don't like anyone saying it's an abnormality because I know it is this which makes me better than them."

"Those were accidents, though, Tom. You didn't want-"

Tom glared at him. "Idiot, of course I want- I always want and that's why I was given this gift because I want _most._"

Potter squinted at him. "You hurt people consciously?"

He paused. "No, you're missing the point. The Wizarding World is a powerful entity; it is in hiding from a world where people have nothing but their wishes and hopes. I think our mistake, Potter, is that we're _hiding_ it all, storing it, and aggravating a volcano of power. If I hurt anyone, it is because they weren't able to counter my attack, because I was never meant to mix with them."

"You know," said Potter, resting his head on his arms and looking up at Tom. "I doubt your parents were Muggle at all."

Tom looked away, feeling a creeping emotion plague him. "If they weren't, then they could still be alive…"

They shared a slow nod of agreement.

"Well, I s'pose that since you're in the Wizarding world now, you'll probably find them. You're clever enough…"

He grinned. "_Yes, I am_," he hissed in Parseltongue.

Potter laughed, and they went quiet. Tom liked Potter when they were in agreement like this; he supposed that the sting of last year's defeat didn't burn as bad now that he could see Potter's better qualities. He was quiet when there wasn't any purpose in talking; he listened when Tom spoke, and nodded when he was expected to. Tom still found being with him a bit disconcerting, since he'd grown used to most people reacting to him with alarm, fear or even outright admiration. Potter didn't act like that; he was the only person who had ever been comfortable in Tom's presence.

"Have…" Tom began, looking carefully at his fingernails, "…have Ron or Hermione owled you yet?"

Potter shook his head, but he didn't appear as forlorn as that first day a week ago, only slightly nettled. "It's a bit strange; I reckon I'll get a letter on my birthday, though, from Hagrid or something."

"Your birthday?"

Potter nodded, nonchalantly plucking at a dandelion's petals. His t-shirt, which was-as usual-too big for him, was stained yellowish with the grass again, and Tom resisted the temptation to tell him to quit rolling about like that. "It's on Friday, the thirty-first," he said blandly.

"Oh," Tom answered.

"Maybe we should walk to town or something, that day. Just to look around; it'll be a nice change," Potter suggested.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He was walking across a clean, well-kept garden. Roses lined the walkway, winding in and out of the black arch surrounding him. The path was a neat set of red bricks leading the way to a huge house. The house was Victorian in style, its French windows open to the late afternoon sun and the ivy spreading tastefully over its large structure. _A manor_, Tom thought as he proceeded up the pathway. The twin front doors slammed inward as Tom raised his wand. He didn't feel as if he had made the decision to go in, but his body moved of its own accord.

There was mirror in the entrance hall. Absently, he turned to look. And there he was…it was him, but it wasn't. The young man was older, maybe about three years older than he was, and what was more peculiar was this familiar stranger's clothing. Rolled-up white shirt sleeves beneath a black vest, and within his open collar he saw that he was wearing a necklace. Confused and curious, he turned away and ventured further down the hallway.

The dining room was extravagant; everything an old Victorian-age house should be. A candelabrum hung low over the dinner plates, which glittered in the leftover light of early evening. Silver, riches, and pure extravagance lay before Tom's gaze. It all didn't seem to matter because the people, seated loftily in their high-backed chairs, were looking at him with detached interest. He was suddenly aware that he had come to this place to make himself known, to see someone.

A dark gaze met his, and Tom would've stepped back were it not for the fact that his own legs carried him forward. His wand at eye-level, he walked slowly towards the little party. A man, beautiful and breathtaking was seated near the end. The elderly couple near him had the same expressions, now filled with distaste.

"Father," he heard himself say, and the self that was in him was jolted out, and suddenly he was watching the scene take place from beside this person who was him, but wasn't. The beautiful man stood abruptly, saying something sharp to Tom or the other Tom-he didn't quite know.

"No, not my father. Inadequate Muggle filth is what I've found," his other self said, and Tom's eyes widened as the older Tom sliced through the air, saying a spell that threw a green disc of light at the beautiful man.

The elderly couple cried out and the older woman turned to reach for her son, who lay still, slumped ungracefully in his own plate-unarguably dead. Older Tom's expression was twisted, contorted with a sickness. Something was hurting him, and Tom could feel it, a piercing in his stomach; disappointment? Yes, such horrible disappointment that it made him feel ill. He didn't turn his gaze away as the bodies of his ancestors lay still and the older Tom raised a shaking hand to his forehead. "Inadequate," he whispered and Tom was Tom and he was upright in bed, hands over his face, trying to stop the rising sickness from consuming him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The house seemed bigger than usual, and Tom went downstairs where there was a lamp. There was nothing worse than the dark when he felt like this. He ran the tap in the kitchen sink for a while before he filled his glass. That had been the first dream he had ever had about his parents, finding one of them. Why was it like that? Tom knew dreams were important now; he'd read about translations at Hogwarts, and he knew better than to disregard such a strange…nightmare.

He had to keep busy; he didn't care to think about it any longer. Not when it was dark, not when his own mind would betray him to irrationalities when he was alone. It was the only reason he could give himself later on when he wondered why he had gone to the trouble. It was just that he knew he couldn't deflect the thoughts without doing something completely unrelated. He ran upstairs to his trunk and pulled out his Charms Index and began to pen down ideas for a really powerful Charm hybrid. He had no general goal in mind, but as the single lamplight made his eyes tear and his head hurt, Tom settled deep into the living room sofa, hoping for a modicum of relief.

_Lux lucis; Levis; Luminarium; Lumos; Aduro_. Light was man's first invention; first discovery, first necessity. Spells providing light were useful. It was also useful to take light away from those who could use it to their advantage. The ball-point pen on the side table was nearly inkless but Tom scratched across the little pad of paper, feeling once more content.

Light that could blind was a pleasing contradiction, and even Potter wouldn't be able to find a way to luck out of it. It was as he penned down the hybrid, "Luminus caecus," that he realised that Potter was going to try and save the world whether or not Tom seemed to be suited to the position a little more than he was. Even if he died, and was no more…probably as a ghost, Potter would remain a presence, constant and unyielding ; stubborn with his insistent grins and electric anger. The cursed boy was doomed.

Tom's pen paused above the white sheet of paper for a short moment, before he quickly scribbled the words, "_Happy Birthday,"_ beneath the spell. The other boy's friends had clearly deserted him, and how soon would he prove to be an unfitting rival for Tom if he continued to be so pathetic about not having friends or if he didn't get birthday gifts tomorrow.

As Tom tucked the paper in his notebook, he ignored the nagging voice in his head, telling him that he'd never actually given something as a _gift_ before. Things like that didn't matter when the Wizarding world was sort of in danger; it all didn't matter because he would see Harry tomorrow and get it all over with, and Potter would grin and think Tom was….

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was on that thirty-first of July in the year nineteen ninety-two that Tom waited at that park from breakfast all the way to near eight o' clock in the evening. He would later tell himself that the summer heat had gotten to his head; that Potter's stupidity was probably catching; that he didn't actually _care_ if Potter never showed up at the park again for the rest of the summer; that he only went back to that park each day not because he wanted to see if Potter came back, but because that was the shadiest part of the neighbourhood in Little Whinging.

Anyway, Potter never did show up; it was all very well. Tom sat in the house during the afternoons after that, looking stormily out at the bleak sun, hating it, hating the children outside who wouldn't stop being so much happier than him, hating Bonny, who kept asking him why he didn't go out anymore, hating The Boy Who Lived.

And after a week and a half, he received his Hogwarts parcel with his lists and his money from the fund. He decided that he would go shopping nearer to the start of school. He planned his trip for the twenty-sixth, which would be next Wednesday.

His second-trip to Diagon Alley was not as incredible as the first as he knew where to go. The most he could look forward to was the new books he would be getting this time round. He had calculated the amount he would need so he could buy a few extra anthologies. His mind was mostly on what he might buy, which was why, on his way through the Leaky Cauldron, he did not see the barman coming towards him with the cart of plates and glasses. The end result was Tom hurting his knee badly against the wooden cart's leg and a tower of plates leaning towards him, about to crash on his head. He had had to think quickly, and the best thing he could think of to prevent the catastrophe was to hit the edge of a nearby table, which would up-end and stand on its side allowing the tower of plates something to lean against, thereby preventing them from falling on him.

Clearly annoyed, Tom caught a few stray plates and upon rising, shoved them at the barman and was even more annoyed when the man grabbed his arm. Tom whirled around with the intention of letting the horrid man know that he had no interest in being hit over the head with any of his filthy plates and that he would rather his knee healed having been subjected to what had been, in fact, an accident due to carelessness.

"Hogwarts?" the man blubbered.

"What?"

"Yer go to Hogwarts?"

"Yes, I do-release my arm!"

The barman was not paying attention; he was looking from the plates now leaning against the miraculously up-ended table to Tom in some form of awe. Tom drew back, and made as though to pull his arm from the barman's grasp. "Muggleborn?" the man prodded, still holding fast.

"I don't know who my parents are-will you-"

"Living with Muggles?!"

"Yes!"

The rest of the Leaky Cauldron was now staring at this spectacle, and Tom was wondering to himself if they incarcerated people in the Wizarding World for physical assault because if it were not so, he wouldn't hesitate to ram his fist against the Barman's ribs and scarper. "A Muggleborn orphan, eh?" the Barman was saying with a leer.

Tom met the man's gaze with what he knew was cold civility. "Let me go," he returned.

The Barman cackled and altered his hold on Tom's arm to a handshake. "Name's Tom, boy. Been looking for a talented young man such as yerself to help out a bit around here. I'll pay yer five Galleons a week next summer yer come by. Show up a week after yer school lets yer go, and room and board'll be free."

Tom snatched his arm back quickly. "What?"

The man who was, much to Tom's disgust, also named Tom grinned. "I'm offerin' yer a job. Here-I'll even let yer come by this Christmas hols if yer want; allus good for a young chap such as yerself to have sommat to spend. How's that sound?"

Tom was speechless. "Me? Why me?"

The Barman-Tom was determined to call him-sighed. "Me last scullery boy kept breakin' the cutlery and plates. The way yer handled this cart give me a mind to keep yer here. What do yer say for this Yule?"

The equivalent of twenty-five pounds sounded quite all right with him. "I will think about it," Tom replied a little less coldly.

"See that yer do. Owl me before Yule, and we'll talk."

Tom nodded, and then promptly made his exit.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was apparently Tom's day to be a target for people to try to knock over. He could very well put himself in the position of blame for he was entirely too distracted what with the thought of having his own job, and being able to make money. At such a rate, he would not even have to go back to the Foster Home at all. The thought pleased him, but he would owl the Barman when he got to school.

He bought his new potions ingredients and started to make his way toward the bookstore around the corner. He glanced blandly at Madame Malkin's robe shop and promptly banished thoughts of Potter with a vengeance. Unfortunately it was then that something small and red struck him in the stomach, sending paper bags flying and Tom, without meaning to, caught the thing that had struck him. It was as his hands grabbed that he realised he had been struck by a very little person.

Honey-brown eyes through a curtain of flaming red hair blinked up at him in alarm. He released the little girl and looked around for his bags, a little dazed at the blow.

"I'm so so _so_ sorry; I was-I didn't mean to hit you…" she began hurriedly. He frowned at her for a minute, and she seemed to trail off at the sight of him, seemingly awestruck. He didn't have time for kids who couldn't watch where they were going. He began collecting his things again, thankful that he had asked the people at Eylops to wrap and spell-o-tape the packages. The little red-head stumbled down and began gathering her own things, glancing furtively at Tom. In her distraction, one of her cauldron-cleaner puffs rolled his way. Scooping it up, he stood and she followed suit, eyes still fixed on him.

He thrust the cleaning puff at her. "_Clearly_ you didn't mean to hit me," he snarled.

He was expecting a lot of things, but what he did not expect was her abrupt spate of giggles. He sized her up, and her little face peeked out from the thick long tendrils of her crimson hair. She was a wan, pathetic thing with countless freckles from her arms up to her now visible face. He saw that she was holding a Hogwarts list in her left hand.

"You're shopping for school?" he asked, his tone less of a sneer and more of a drawl.

"Erm, yes. My first-year; are you in Gryffindor?"

He nodded slowly. "Second Year."

She was now smiling shyly at him, which flattered her features in a remarkable way. "I thought you must be in Third Year or something. You look older."

"I've been told."

"M'name's Ginny. Ginny Weasley." She seemed to want to hold out her hand, but her arms were full, so she ducked her head a little. It was almost obeisance, and Tom decided that he didn't dislike her.

"Tom," he returned, inclining his head. He paused, however, as he realised something. "…Weasley?!"

"Ginny!" came a call from around the corner, and a plump woman with hair the same colour as the girl's rounded the shop they stood beside. "Merlin's sake, Ginevra! I thought you'd gone into Eylops! We have to meet the others at Flourish and Blotts in five minutes, so you had-oh-Hello, who's your friend?"

Mrs. Weasley surveyed Tom quickly. He was in his Muggle clothing; a long-sleeved, white and blue, bar striped Piqué rugby with jeans. The little red-head whom Tom now identified as Ginevra flushed and whirled on her mother. "I _was _going, Mum. Then I met _him_. He's going to Hogwarts, Mum. His name is Tom."

"I see," the older woman replied, trying to place him. "A pleasure to meet you, Tom. Are you a friend of Ron's?"

He thought that lying at this juncture might have some repercussions. "I'm in his year."

Mrs. Weasley beamed, relieving her daughter of her load of packages. "Lovely! We were just about to go meet everyone at Flourish and Blotts. Do you have your books yet, Tom?"

He shook his head politely and Ginevra beamed suddenly. "Come with us!"

It wasn't as if it would be out of his way. He _had_ been heading that way, anyway. Besides, what could possibly go wrong with _one_ trip to a bookstore?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The author of their DADA books, Gilderoy Lockhart was holding a book-signing, so the bookstore was packed with witches. Tom, Ginevra and Mrs. Weasley had to squeeze in through the entrance as the congestion seemed to push all the air out. With excessive trouble, they made their way to the pyramid of their DADA books. Mrs. Weasley had hurried away, suddenly flustered, and Tom had been so busy trying to attain the remainder of his books that he had lost sight of Ginevra. This, of course, meant that he was not aware when Potter entered the bookstore. This also meant that when he did catch sight of Ginevra again, he was not prepared for the crowd who stood near her. He was also unprepared as Hermione materialized and launched herself at him.

"Tom! You're here too! Did Harry owl you?" she cried, and he hurriedly extricated himself from her arms as the entire Weasley family appeared as if summoned by the commotion.

"I'm just buying my books. I'm leaving _right away_," he clarified, beginning to move towards the cashier desk. Unfortunately because there were so many witches in the store, Tom could not manoeuvre as well as he would have liked. His efforts to leave the store impeded, he glanced beyond Hermione to Ginevra, who was looking up in a form of awe at none other than Harry Potter. Potter, oblivious to Ginevra's gaze, was instead looking at Tom. He grinned, raising a hand in greeting, and Tom wondered a little vaguely about wand-less, non-verbal magic, and if it would help him get away with flaying the Boy Who Lived right then. _How dare he grin?_ he thought viciously. _It's not as if he can waltz up to me and act like everything is all right between us, as if he never made me a promise and then forgot all about it._

Settling with a fixed glare, he turned on his heel, prepared to step on a few toes in order to make his way to the cash desk. He could hear Hermione and Potter saying his name over the prattle of the witches around them. Wonderful relief was his prize as he dropped his books on the desk and the girl began bagging them.

"Tom?"

He'd heard that voice majority of his summer. He didn't need to turn. He had also decided that he didn't need to answer, either.

Potter's bony elbow rested on the wooden desk and as he looked up at him, his expression confused. "You all right?"

He felt that the glare wasn't nearly enough, but he sought to show the little fool that he didn't _need_ his existence. He would pretend that the world was Potterless and the prospect was warming. A hand tapped him lightly on the shoulder; he set his jaw and counted out three galleons, accepting the bag from the girl. He said nothing as he turned to leave the shop.

Potter's hand on his arm was what he was expecting, however, because people had the depraved habit of using physical contact to announce their needs or wants sometimes. He didn't care for it most of the time. Setting his bags on the floor, he turned, meeting Potter's nettled gaze, placed two hands on each of the boy's shoulders and pushed.

The boy-hero stumbled back, but caught his balance on the nearest shelf; several books clattered to the floor. A couple of witches had turned at the noise. Potter was now angry, and that only made Tom more upset because what right had _he_ to be so angry when Tom was seething with outrage.

"_What_ is your problem?" Potter demanded.

To dignify that question with an answer was too much, rather he turned to leave. Let the stupid boy seethe in his confusion and ignorance; let him wonder because he should _know_.

He should have known that he wouldn't be allowed to leave, and his shoulder was grabbed as Potter displayed his weird and disturbing strength by forcing Tom to face him, clutching Tom's collar. "Just tell me what it is, and I'll let you go!"

A shove to the other boy's ribs was in due order, which made sense as he couldn't use magic just yet. Now Hermione and Weasley were in tow and more of the witches were looking on in detached interest. All this might have served to further ignite Tom's new rage, but Potter was more than _enough_. As usual, he didn't need to say the spell, it was on him, _in_ him and Potter snatched his hands away from Tom's shirt at the sudden heat, paling with shock.

"Let me go?" Tom scoffed, adjusting his shirt. "No one needs your consent to do anything, _Harry Potter!" _

He hadn't meant for it to be so loud, but why should he complain when, at mention of Potter's name, the witches turned from their attention on Lockhart to the Boy Who Was Also Famous But Not Entirely Convenient now staring at Tom with ill-concealed outrage.

"It _can't _be Harry Potter?"

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly as a man with wavy blonde hair and blue eyes dived forward and seized the boy-hero's arm. Tom shot one more scathing look at Weasley and Hermione, before reaching for his bags. His exit was hurried, and his nerves were on fire. _He's nothing, nothing but a crude idiot with _nothing_ but that horrid hair in place where his brains should be!_ he thought with vehemence.

After having half the Wizarding world run into him, it was with some resignation that Tom reacted as a sharp limb connected with his right shoulder when as he attempted to leave. He looked into a pair of suddenly alarmed grey eyes. It was Draco Malfoy with someone who appeared to be…his father. Malfoy made an attempt to shirk away from the look of rage Tom fixed upon him.

"Pay attention to where you're walking, Draco. You cannot master others until you learn to master yourself," his father drawled, grey eyes haughtily sweeping the room.

Tom had only looked at the man for a brief moment, but when Malfoy's father looked down at him, his whole countenance changed. Shock turned his brows downward and his grey eyes narrowed. The smaller Malfoy looked from his father to Tom with confusion and a little alarm. Tom stepped back, feeling much the same. Not even the professors at Hogwarts had looked at him this way. It was as if the elder Malfoy had discovered a tarnished magical artefact in a Muggle second-hand shop and was studying him carefully to assess his possible worth.

"Father?" Malfoy broke in, badly startled.

As Malfoy's father's strange and alarming reverie broke, Tom threw the older man a speculative look before breezing past the duo. It wasn't just Muggles; Wizards were beyond comprehension sometimes, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Badly upset at the current state of things, Tom spent the rest of the summer shut up in his room, reading his new textbooks, memorising quotes, new spells, and dates. Nearer to school, he received an owl around three a.m. one morning from Neville

_**I know you told me not to write, but I got my books this week. I already know some of the first chapter in Standard Spells! See you on the train!**_

_**-Neville**_

This cheered Tom somewhat, knowing that every trick he'd taught the boy hadn't been forgotten over the holidays in his absence. He wasn't pleased with the world at present, but at least he knew the one constant thing in his life would be his education in magic. It wouldn't be long before he would have the textbooks memorised, he could settle in the familiar library-find a new spot and things would go all right. He didn't have to think of Potter at all; he was just another one of the students at Hogwarts, a once-celebrated hero who would come to nothing out of his own incompetence.

Of course with these refreshing thoughts, Tom began to feel better to the point that he even smiled a little ironically at the thought that he had allowed the boy-hero to get to him.

He met Neville at the train station, about to enter the platform barrier. He was next to an elderly but formidable woman who was wearing a dreadful hat with a stuffed bird on top and moss-coloured robes.

"Be absolutely certain that you didn't forget anything!" she ordered, and Neville raised his eyes slowly to her.

"I have everything. I've checked…twice."

The woman, who was undoubtedly his grandmother, paused, eyeing Neville quietly as he stepped forward into the barrier. What she saw when she looked at her grandson must have satisfied her as she tugged her handbag closer to herself and stepped after him into the platform barrier. Tom followed.

When Tom stepped through, Neville had turned to say something to his grandmother, but caught Tom's eye. His whole countenance brightened as he let go of the cart holding his trunk. "Tom!"

Tom gave him a smile as he approached.

"I knew you'd come arrive about this time; it's a little early and you're coming all the way from Surrey, aren't you?"

Tom nodded. "And you seem to have ensured you were here at the same time."

He laughed. "Couldn't wait to do magic again. It's been hell practicing the spells in my head when I couldn't use my wand."

He nodded once more and looked at Tom decisively. A summer had done him some difference; taller if anything, and his naïveté had given way to a strange cynic's ardour while sharp smiles replaced the hesitance of last year.

"Neville, did I not raise you to observe the niceties?" came the grandmother's voice from nearby.

Neville's smile fell; if anything he looked annoyed. "Gran, this is Tom, my best friend. Tom, this is my grandmother."

"Your best friend, eh?" she sniffed, coming forwards, her handbag swinging wildly. "So this is the boy who's put you up to it."

Neville reddened.

Tom smiled brightly. "Neville's desire to achieve is entirely his own, Madam. Our friendship borders on rivalry as he tries to surpass me in studies."

Mrs. Longbottom's eyebrow arched and she looked back at Neville, who had now reassembled his features as if this was nothing new to him. "Tom, let's get on the train," he prodded suddenly. "Well, bye, Gran."

She administered a nod to both boys as they carted their trunks toward the waiting train, which Tom was more than willing to do. He had just seen a crowd of red-heads and with them was sure to be Potter with whom he was not mentally prepared to contend at the moment.

And much like the previous June and the September before it, the train was not bereft of noisy voices and the sounds of running students. The benefit of arriving on time and having their trunks settled was the fact that they were able to acquire a compartment to themselves. Neville unearthed Trevor and Tom kicked his trunk underneath his seat, sitting back on the bench with their Standard Book of Spells on his lap. He wouldn't be able to practice his curse hybrids until he had a test subject, but they both went through the first chapter with their wands and Neville, with an impressive show of conjuring, filled the compartment with blue bubbles that wouldn't pop.

Hermione joined them half-way to the school, but she didn't remain there long. She appeared distracted and a little worried. Tom didn't ask her where her compatriots were as he didn't care to know. For all he knew, Potter could be off on another with his annoying sidekick and Tom was content to sit there. On a whim, he conjured fairy lights and they swept into Hermione's hair. It distracted her for only a moment before she brushed them away and stood up, leaving the compartment.

"Wonder what her problem is," Neville mused.

Tom didn't answer. He was upset because he was wondering right along with him.

In a few hours, none of that mattered because they were in the Great Hall right before the Sorting and every single student was talking about how Harry Potter, in a show of amazing grandeur, had chosen to arrive by _flying car_ rather than the train like everyone else. Tom could not help the mess as the goblet near his arm shattered.


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N- Yes, I know I have price on my head for having taken so long, but I should hope the quality will make up for the wait. A special special thank you to the patient readers out there. **

**Another announcement to make is the retirement of my beta-reader. This means two things. One being that the grammars may very well deplete into nothingyness and it will mean the use of obscure usage of words such as, "nothingyness" and the second is that the chapter will tend to come out a bit faster since I will probably get fed up with them and throw them at you sooner. ********. Yes, I believe that is all; thank you once more for all your patience and comment have been much appreciated. And finally, to my beloved Pipenerd who will always be the mentor to my disorganised and moodily disposed muse.

* * *

**

_**-Time Or Manner-**_

**Chapter Six**

"You're telling me that Harry Potter flew a car into the school grounds and crashed it into the Whomping Willow?" Tom heard Neville exclaim at Thomas and Finnegan. Neville was clearly drawing attention away from him as his right arm was now swimming in water and shattered goblet.

"_Reparo_," Tom said, waving his wand over the mess and watching the goblet spring back up in one piece. Neville settled back in his seat, still looking at him with some concern. _What is Potter attempting to prove anyway?_ He queried silently. Tom knew that it couldn't have anything to do with a hunger for more fame, unless his conclusions about the other boy had been that inaccurate. When it came down to it, Tom didn't really like to think of how his summer had ended.

McGonagall and the Headmaster had left the head table while the students chattered. They were all talking about it as if it was some miracle; something admirable-surely it was a feat to enchant a car to fly and drive it to school, but why bother? Something was amiss and Tom was resigned to concluding this when considering Harry Potter's thought process. He rested his chin in his hand as the Sorting Ceremony began and there were five new Gryffindor girls including Ginevra along with six new Gryffindor boys. He observed the strange increase in number of First Years from last year. As he looked around to calculate the number of Second Years, he caught Ginevra's eye and she beamed at him before shifting over to his end of the bench quickly. At this the Weasley twins turned in their seats to observe him suspiciously, which made Tom a little pleased though he didn't care to ascertain why that was.

"Is it okay if I sit here?" she queried in a small voice, not looking at him. "I don't know anyone…"

Tom ignored Neville's expression and looked down at the little figure at his left. "All your brothers are over there. What of them?"

Ginevra nibbled on the fingernail of her pinkie as she glanced bitterly at the twins who were now taking part in one of their jokes, flicking peas at a blonde girl in Tom's year. "Everyone already knows I'm the youngest Weasley," she whispered. "I don't want to make it more obvious because I follow them around…"

He gave a small lift of his shoulders indicating a shrug as he said, "Well, sit here if you like. You can talk to Neville." He waved a hand at Neville after which Tom then turned to his pumpkin juice to take a sip. _I should probably owl the Barman tomorrow, confirming the agreement_, he was thinking.

Ginevra, though clearly disarmed at his new indifference, turned to Neville who began to make polite conversation. Tom was once more convinced that having Neville around was now more than a novelty, but a necessity. He could have some form of peace as he ate dinner. Perhaps this would also make it easier for him to ignore the exclamations of admiration at Potter's newest achievement. Yet, there seemed to be no avoiding Neville's and Ginevra's awkward conversation as both seemed inclined to include him regardless of all the body language he exhibited, showing that he was very much not interested.

"Tom's the right fellow to show you how to do really well at school, right, Tom?" said Neville emphatically.

Tom raised his eyes slowly to the two of them, making sure to rest a little maliciously on the small redhead. "Neville's under the mistaken impression that I'm offering a paid service."

The girl looked politely curious as Neville guffawed. "Ha ha! That's not it. I just reckon Ginny-was it? I reckoned she might need your sort of help, Tom."

"We'll see," he replied plainly, turning away.

"You're in Harry's year, aren't you?" Ginevra asked abruptly and Tom looked back at her irritably. She seemed to have been in the boy-hero's company often enough; didn't she get enough of him as it was?

Neville nodded, but it appeared that, unlike those times in the past when he had grinned and gushed about Potter's latest antics, he now gave a little frown.

"What's his favourite subject? Is it Defence Against the Dark Arts…I guess that's what it would be, wouldn't it?" she demanded, and Tom looked down at her with distaste. She clearly sought to be subtle about her behaviour, but this only made her more obvious. He caught Neville's eye and saw him grimace a bit. Ginevra caught the silent discussion between the two of them and looked askance at Tom. He favoured her with a bright smile.

"Just to let you know, Neville's not too fond of Potter. Best not to mention him too much; he's gotten on Neville's bad side in the past."

She looked at Neville, who gave a resigned shrug.

After which, she did not bring up Harry Potter again.

* * *

That evening, no one wanted to go up to their dormitories. Rather, they chose to congregate in the Common Room where they could wait for Potter and his accomplice to arrive from their meeting with the Headmaster. To be greeted at the door like a hero over something as trivial as that really irritated Tom to no end. Neville wasn't much interested in the prospect either and when Tom immediately headed upstairs to retire, he followed. Relief swept over Tom as he looked once again at the tall narrow windows and the luxurious, crimson, velvet hangings over the six four-posters. He was really home now.

"Won't he be expelled?" Neville queried. "The Daily Prophet says that Muggles saw the car. That's like a breach on the Statute of Muggle Secrecy."

Tom shook his head. "If I'm right about this school and the Headmaster, Potter's expulsion will be something unheard of. He could very well start killing off students and get away with it."

Neville went quiet and began getting ready for bed.

Tom shrugged into his blue pyjama shirt, frowning as he did up the buttons. Was this going to be a year much like the last? Would he work and work yet still gain nothing from it all. Would the professors work harder not to compliment him, ignore his accomplishments?

"_No_," he thought bitterly. "_Not this year. I will awe them with what I can do_!"

The dormitory door swung open and Weasley stumbled in followed swiftly by Potter. Potter looked around the dormitory room and Tom saw the same relief he felt just moments ago flicker across the boy-hero's face. Tom sent Neville a significant look while Neville sighed and shook his head. Any other student would have been expelled in a minute. Not Potter of course.

The two of them made momentary eye contact before Tom broke it with a scowl, opening up his notebook. The pages were running out; he would have to start using loose parchment until he could purchase another notebook.

"All right, Neville?" Weasley said smugly.

Neville nodded coldly at the both of them, causing identical expressions of confusion to break out on Potter and Weasley's faces.

Seconds later, the rest of the Second Year boys arrived. This resulted in an hour or so of back-slapping, whoops of admiration and annoying recounts of car-flying misadventures. Tom would have gone down to the Common Room to read, but judging from the distant noise, there were clearly some more late night fellowship in occurrence.

Tom resolved to wait.

This, of course, was another thing that Potter could undoubtedly foil. As the other boys rolled over in their sheets and shut their hangings, Tom sat up in his pillows and opened his Standard Book of Spells. He would have been more disposed to reading his DADA books, but something about them irked Tom and he wasn't sure what it was. He also wasn't always disposed to reading in bed, but until the library opened for the year tomorrow, he would have to make do.

Then he heard something that sounded alarmingly like Potter trying to subtly clear his throat but upon failing to do so, managed only to make a strangled noise, a bit like a choke but halfway between a swallow and an Aramaic "h". It wouldn't take a genius to know that Potter wanted his attention. Tom was squeezes away from breaking his quill in half. He didn't turn and began scratching at the page before him, making meaningless scribbles in the margins of his new book.

The rustle of bedclothes to his right indicated Potter sitting up. "Er…Tom?"

He decided that it was really incompetent of Voldemort to have failed in killing this boy last summer. He scribbled harder.

Potter was now out of bed. "Will you just _listen_?"

Tom's head snapped up, glaring at full volume. "What do you want, Potter?" he quietly snarled.

The room was dark, except the tip of Tom's wand, and the moon was a thin slit, shining fluid silver over the other boy's figure. "_I wanted to explain about what happened_," he hissed and Tom started back, not expecting the outbreak of Parseltongue. "_I should have owled you! There was no way for you to know that I was-my aunt and uncle locked me in my room, you see. You must have been waiting there all day_…"

For some reason, this only made Tom more upset. "_Do _not_ get the wrong idea_," he returned coldly, leaning back on his pillow.

Potter frowned. "_I do not understand…why have you been so upset with me? I have not done anything to you_. _I'm tired of you ignoring me._"

"_I fail to see how it should affect you. We are _not_ friends_."

There was a long, awful pause after that. Potter's expression shut down and his mouth set into a thin line of resolution. "Fine," he whispered in plain English, then after another moment he turned his back to Tom. "Fine," he repeated, clambering under the covers and settling into stony silence.

Frustrated and irritable, Tom threw his covers off, determined not to force himself to put up with even the sound of Potter's sleeping. He would do his reading downstairs if he had to.

* * *

It was only some form of Providence that the Common Room was then silent and Tom regretted not having moved down here earlier on. At least what had happened upstairs could have been avoided. Besides which, he felt it to be a waste of time just thinking on it anyway.

A glint of red by the fire caught his eye. Ginevra, quill in hand, was scribbling furiously into a little black notebook. Tom watched as she paused and seemed to read the words on the page before she began scribbling again. The sight of her bowed red head and her moving quill reminded Tom of his own note-taking at the Foster home. It was an isolated activity that gave him peace to a great extent, and judging from the zeal with which this little girl wrote, Tom knew she felt that same isolation though she probably could not possibly begin to comprehend it as he did.

He announced his presence by sitting in the armchair a little away from hers. She jumped, startled, and immediately shut her book. Tom pretended not to notice as he opened his Standard Book of Spells.

"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked timidly.

"I refuse to sleep until I've done all I'm meant to do for the day," he replied.

"Oh," she sighed, looking suddenly despondent. Tom looked at her appraisingly. She was clad in a long nightie, which she had pushed over her knees so she seemed like a ball of green gingham clutching a black notebook.

"What's that?" he inquired softly, looking at the book.

She instinctively covered the book with her arms. "Oh, it's just something I…I like to write in."

"A journal?" he asked, now turning to his notes.

He heard her pause significantly. "Yeah, a bit like that."

He didn't look up again. "A lot like that, you mean."

She didn't reply and Tom knew instantly that she was afraid, afraid that her secrets would be torn from her, as she probably should be. Tom, despite his clear disinterest in her activities, could very well apply several ways to take those secrets from her. He had a theory, however, and it was one just recently developed from his conversations with Potter over the summer. Secrets shared were more empowering than those taken. While sharing a secret disclosed a corresponding vulnerability, it also revealed trust and trust was a strength. Tom recalled thinking how vulnerable Potter had seemed at first when he'd trusted him with secrets over the summer holidays and how that appearance of defencelessness had vanished, turned into a strength when they'd discovered how similar their lives were.

"Don't worry," he told her gallantly. "I don't intend to violate your privacy. As I expect I can sit here studying without being disturbed, you can expect the same." He glanced up at her. Her fearful expression faded and tucking her red curtain of hair behind her ear, she gave him a quivery smile.

He went back to his books, intending to ignore her completely until he became tired, but she did not return to her diary. Rather, she contrived to watch him. The flame in the fireplace let out several snaps and crackles, and Tom shot a glance her way. Her wide brown eyes might as well not have been brown for the way they seemed to dance with the flames nearby. What a strange little thing, he thought to himself. He returned to his notes.

"Tom…" she murmured.

He didn't bother to look up. "What is it?"

"Oh...I was thinking…"Her little laugh was breathy; dream-filled. "I know another boy named Tom…"

Her fiery bright eyes wouldn't miss his look of cold hate. "While I doubt he is anything like me, I also see very little reason to compare us based on our names."

Her little nose wrinkled at him in confusion. "I was just going to say that you're a little like him."

His book shut with a snap. "Oh, really?" he spat.

She was looking back at her diary, so she may have missed the marble-like coldness of his gaze upon her. She nodded and a small smile crept over her lips. "He's really clever, really nice and he talks just like you."

"Oh?" he returned coldly.

"Yes…he told me that I don't need to worry too much about the school because he knows I'm clever, too." Another husky giggle. "It cheered me up a little."

_How naïve of you_, Tom thought with some viciousness.

"There's something different between you two, though…"

This caught his attention, though he was too irritated to check his tone. "And what's that?"

His snappish tone seemed to bring her back to the present as her fingers tightened around the little book and she looked at Tom. "S-sorry, it's nothing really. I was just-"

Tom sat back in his seat, eyeing her. "I imagine you only feel the need to see us so much the same because we're both named Tom. And it also seems you cannot prove our similarities now that you think about it properly."

Her little mouth curled into a frown. "What?"

He opened his book again with an air of indifference. "It's not wise to show your stupidity so blatantly."

She made a sound like that of an enraged kitten as she sat up. "I was wrong, then!" she snapped. "A horrible person like you could never be like him!"

He was on his feet in a moment, and his wand, which he had become disposed to keeping in his sleeve, now slipped out and pointed at her. She stared at him in open-mouthed silence. He smiled. "_Pneum_ _Aufero_!" he hissed, swiping the wand across in a diagonal movement.

Ginevra gasped as a little ball of oxygen was sucked from her lungs. Her hands flew to her chest and neck as she choked for a brief moment. Tom's grin widened as he saw the effectiveness of this hex. It wasn't anything that harmful, but it would give her a bit of a scare. As her pupils dilated and she took several relieved gulps of air, Tom took a seat right next to her.

She shrank back, but Tom put his wand away, leaving her to look at him in alarm and utter disbelief. His smile was still at its warmest, though it had taken on a feral nature. "Yes, Ginevra," he said in a pleasing imitation at a friendly, earnest tone. "You _were_ wrong, and you'll remember because you were wrong on two counts. The first count is your desire to compare me to someone who merely shares my name. The second is your rushed conclusion regarding the nature of our differences. Your Tom is a liar, I suspect, but _I'll_ be truthful in saying that if you keep up like this, you won't stand a chance."

With that, he offered her a sympathetic frown which wasn't a little mocking and resumed his seat in the other armchair. Ginevra sat in frozen silence for a short moment before she picked up her book and fled to the girl's dormitories.

Tom couldn't help but think that things had gone rather well.

* * *

The next day was a substantial improvement to the way the term began. He got up early and Neville was already dressing.

"Your being up before me could be considered an anomaly, Neville," Tom remarked, pulling out a set of robes from his trunk.

The other boy laughed. "I'm up because my Gran is supposed to send me four galleons in the owl post this morning."

"Why's that?"

"She'll notice I was right when I said I hadn't forgotten anything. We made something like a bet that she would mail me four galleons if she didn't find anything I'd left behind."

Tom thought amiability would propose some form of good omen on this start of term. "I suppose you've become a dangerous gamble now," he commented, snapping the buckles of his inner robe shut.

Judging from the other boy's expression, Neville quite liked this amiable comment.

The Great Hall was shining with a crisp, early autumn sun and the dark and polished wooden tables for each of the Houses seemed to glitter. The tall stained-glass windows shot rainbows across the vast room. The scent of coffee, chocolate and freshly-baked pastries wafted over the tables and once again, Tom felt the definition of home; of where he belonged most. He barely noticed it when Neville sat near Ginevra until he took a seat opposite the two of them and met her stunned gaze.

She was snow-white that morning and her freckled, oval-shaped face was barely visible beneath the blanket of crimson over her head. She immediately busied herself with her porridge, trying not to make eye-contact even as her face and arms blushed suddenly red. Tom found this incredibly funny.

"Sleep well?" he asked of her bowed head.

She made some form of noncommittal noise.

Neville looked up from his Standard Book of Spells. "Yes, this is the one I read about. In Transfiguration, we're to learn about the division ratio making up the components of two different types of matter. I read up on the beginners' Arithmancy, thinking it would help if I knew some of the formulas, but I didn't know which one it was."

Tom sighed. "Neville, the formula is in _that_ textbook. You don't need to cross-reference whenever you don't understand the plain words on the page."

Neville was chewing on the end of his quill pensively. "What am I supposed to do then? If I fall behind this year then my aunts and uncles will have a riot! I _knew_ I'd flop after the first year!"

"Oh, _do_ shut up, Neville," Tom retorted impatiently. "Are you not aware that I've guided you through the entire first year of standard spells and that I intend to do the same _this_ year provided you remain motivated and do as I say?"

Neville appeared slightly cowed. He flipped silently through the next few pages. Tom sat back and bit into his toast. He caught Ginevra looking at him and he shot her a wicked look, at which she did her very best at hiding her embarrassment. It was something like recreation, really, goading her like that.

He was waylaid when Hermione arrived, taking a sisterly seat beside Ginevra in aims at making light conversation. Ginevra obliged, trying not to look Tom's way as he turned back to Neville.

"Anyway, we can look over the formula later, so you needn't worry," he said in a firm manner.

The entrance of Potter and Weasley did put something of a damper on his mood. This did not last all that long for when the post arrived, Tom and the others were treated to a brilliant show of Weasley being berated and Potter going beet-red whilst trying to sink, by some form of osmosis, into the wooden table. Weasley had been sent something called a "Howler" which had taken on the voice of Ginevra's mother in shouting herself hoarse.

Overall, it was quite entertaining. Even Neville leaned forward and said in a low, amused tone, "I suppose this beats his expulsion by a long shot." And Hermione, sitting nearby -supposedly immersed in her _Voyages with Vampires-_ looked positively alarmed at Neville's comment. Tom and Neville ignored her.

* * *

Many things at Hogwarts were mysterious and unexpected, but Tom liked to think he could easily understand the mechanics involving most of them, given the right amount of time. Yet, when he stood in the school courtyard with the rest of the Gryffindors that one overcast day after lunch, he could not, for the life of him, understand what made Draco Malfoy walk over to where he and Neville were talking.

Even more unusual was the absence of his two cronies. While under normal circumstances they seemed to act as a parodied version of armour, Malfoy walked alone and seemed a lot thinner as a result. His sickly-white features seemed nearly grey in the cloudy weather as his grey eyes, though narrow, stood out stark in his face from where Tom could see.

Malfoy stood before the two of them and looked at Tom. The boy seemed to be bracing himself as he grabbed at the sleeves of his robes, burying his fingers in the material as he looked nervously up at him. "Hullo," he said.

Tom was curious, but Neville chose to start things off with a bout of open hostility. "What do _you_ want?"

"Neville," Tom said calmly. "Malfoy has something to say."

Neville nodded and took a seat on one of the stone steps, opening a Herbology book.

Tom looked back at Malfoy who seemed to have lost some of his resolve as he looked around the courtyard for some means of an exit. "Well?" Tom offered politely.

Malfoy blinked stupidly up at him in consternation and Tom's patience had suddenly worn thin, at which he turned to Neville. "We've a lot better things to do than to wait for him to manage to articulate, and, at this point, he doesn't seem to be any further along than when he started."

Neville rose, but Malfoy stepped forward, impeded only by hesitation. "Wait! I was just going to say…" Here he lifted his pointed chin a little to adopt an aristocratic air most likely in imitation of his father. It was something he could only pull off so much. "There is something coming this year and I-I've been told it might start some change in the school you'd quite like."

Tom paused. "What?" he hissed.

Now Malfoy, recognising that Tom was now visibly interested, grew more heartened. "Like I said, there's something big happening this year and I'm just offering you the advice to be wary when it comes."

Tom's brows drew together. "And _why_ are you offering said advice? We've not been speaking before this."

The short-lived bravery falling from Malfoy's expression was remarkable as his thin shoulders tightened. His gaze fell down to Neville, who was now looking up at him as well. Apparently, Malfoy found Neville much easier to stare at as he seemed to gaze at the smaller boy for a comfortable length of time. This was all before he bit his lip pensively and muttered. "Look, I can't really tell you now. My fath-I'm just supposed to _tell_ you this and that's all."

He dithered for a moment, waiting for what seemed a definable reaction, then as if strings had been attached to his legs, he turned on his heel and moved off toward the circle of Slytherins off on the far right.

Tom watched him walk away.

"What did he mean?" Neville mused.

Tom wouldn't speculate out loud in front of Neville in case the conclusion would be better kept confidential. Instead, his mind replayed the whole conversation again and again. "_Something's coming?_ _Is this some pathetic effort at prophetic word?" _He thought of the way in which Malfoy had related these words. Clearly, the boy was smart enough to be frightened of Tom, but what could possibly make the little twit bypass his fear enough to _warn_ Tom of coming danger, when _clearly_, the brat had never worried about anyone but himself.

_Look, I can't really tell you now. My fath-_

"_He was about to mention his father…"_ Tom thought with a large degree of wonder. "_What would his father have to do with it? Is it a message from him, telling me to 'keep my head down'?"_

He had been about to turn to Neville to tell him that they should get ready for Defence Against the Dark Arts when they heard a voice that was clearly Malfoy's drawl.

"Everyone queue up! Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"

Neville stood up and stepped forward. He let out a disbelieving laugh. "No way," he muttered.

Tom squinted at the crowd now gathering around the Boy Who Lived and shook his head. "It seems his deprivation this summer fed him ideas of glory and fame. Don't worry, Neville. He will soon be disillusioned."

Neville blinked up at him, and Tom shot him a side-long glance before he turned toward the school. He was no longer upset about Potter. The stupid boy could have his fame; have his small ticket to the admiring crowds. Tom had so much more; he _would _have so much more.

* * *

The ominous conversation with Malfoy was completely driven from his mind as Tom's classes resumed. It was mostly DADA that did it for him.

Judging from his published works, Gilderoy Lockhart could very easily have been one of the greatest wizards of that age, but he failed miserably at displaying such hidden talents. Tom, who had glanced briefly at the books to make note of the strategies used to deal with each Dark creature, did not think it necessary to know what the Defence Against Dark Arts professor's favourite colour was.

It appeared as though Hermione and Neville thought quite differently. Hermione was always one to spout quotations, so the hundred percent she received on their pop quiz was to be expected. However, Tom was more than outraged when Neville managed a mark just like that one.

That having been established, the blonde loon of a professor set a horde of Cornish pixies on them. Tom instructed Neville to use a Freezing Charm and they managed to deal with most of them, but at the sound of the bell, they were the first out of the classroom, Tom shaking with disgust and even more outrage.

"_Why_ does that fool of a Headmaster keep hiring these incompetents?" he hissed as Neville hurried along after him down the hallway.

"Well…"Neville began, seemingly in thought.

Unwilling to put up with any defence of the idiot, Tom whirled on Neville. "Speaking of which, I should ask what business _you_ have memorising unnecessary text!"

"What?" Neville exclaimed, quite taken-aback at the turn in Tom's anger.

"I am well aware that it must have taken you some good hours this summer to memorise large excerpts that you really have no use for," he snapped in return.

Neville looked down at his book-bag. "You _know_ I have a hard time remembering things to begin with," he replied quietly. "I thought you would be happy with the mark I got. I _did_ work hard. Why is that wrong?"

Tom frowned, but he checked his tone. "Neville, you are aiming for intelligence, not studiousness."

"I don't understand!"

The corridor was still busy, but the other Gryffindors had branched in different directions, allowing him and Neville to walk at their leisure. It also gave him an opportunity to explain this new lesson. Tom resumed his walk, looking off at the distant corridor further ahead. "Listen closely, Neville. I'm going to ask you a question. Think about what you answer."

Neville nodded, still looking like his birthday had been cancelled.

"What do you wish to do with your life after you've finished being educated?"

They walked a little ways and Neville became quiet for a length of time. They reached the end of hallway and Tom turned to go down the stairs, but Neville stopped in his tracks. Tom turned and looked at him. The other boy's expression was lost, forlorn and worried; his round and wide blue eyes were focussed on Tom with that familiar helpless hunger he had taken to expressing since late last term.

Tom sighed. In his early school years, he had been interested in the way that people acquired knowledge. He had felt that abilities such as reading, writing, and speaking were the basis of social survival, but knowledge acquired after that point was largely for one's own selfish utilisation, used to make and re-create whatever one found of interest. When he had learned such discernment, he was instantly able to absorb what he needed and discard that which he didn't. "Neville," he said. "It should be clear that when you've finished your education here that you'll have been given the opportunity to order a certain corner of the universe with the skills you will have gained." You should also be aware that many people will want you to take in everything. Since you know you have a problem remembering, you must learn to be selective. Of what actual use are these things? Ask yourself this when you study."

The smaller boy remained still, looking down at Tom who now stood at the bottom of the stairwell. He seemed to think on this for a short moment and with something of a nod, he began to descend the stairs. Tom, who was looking up at him, could only frown for a moment as he contemplated the nature of this boy, and how he must try very hard to instruct Neville so that he would soon drop all the mundane ideologies of Wizarding popularity and begin to open his mind to change. If not, then Tom would never benefit from this friendship. And that was of secondary importance to him while he was there at Hogwarts.

* * *

The rest of the week passed without event. Tom found the workload was speeding up quite nicely, and he was distracted from the annoyances of the start of term such as Potter's newfound fan-base, Lockhart's idiocy, and Malfoy's furtive glances in his direction at meal times.

It was Saturday, though, when something came to his attention. He awoke at noon, having spent the night before with Neville in the library going over the spells for next week's lessons; the room was empty. He slipped out of the covers, feeling a little bright-eyed and restless. He knew he had dreamed the night before, but it was a vague conception of something strange, but familiar. He dismissed it and walked toward one of the tall narrow windows by Potter's bed.

There was something so charming about the autumn sun that morning that he looked at its effect on the lake near the far end of the grounds. That is when he saw Ginevra, who was unmistakeable as a little darkly clad figure topped with a swathe of red. She had strayed too close to the Forbidden Forest, but her steps seemed too quick for someone who wandered. In truth, it meant nothing to him, but it was as she paused and looked about her with a definable unease that Tom began to dress, quite ready to accost little Ginevra in her moment of secrecy.

Motivated by a still sense of the vigilante within him, he walked briskly toward the lake, trailing her distant figure near the back of the Groundskeeper's hut. Despite the sun, the air was icy with the approaching autumn and in the direction he walked, the reddish-yellow leaves cascaded down, like broken crowns sweeping from the forest.

He moved around the dwelling slowly, peering around the back. She was there, but it was then that Tom was seized with a weird and familiar feeling. His mind was cast back to the day he had stood in the robe shop, the very moment that Potter entered. He remembered the strange feeling of self-reflection as he had looked at the boy. It had been a weird and indefinable state of familiarity, of recognition and acknowledgement. Now, as he observed the little girl approaching what appeared to be a small hen coop, her movements slow and steady as she gazed evenly at the tinier hut, Tom knew that feeling again.

This time, though, it rose in him like acid from his stomach, leaving him with a general unease as well as a drawing and deliberate seduction. His entire body went cold, and he was once more plagued with that insistent feeling that he was overlooking something; missing an answer to a question he'd forgotten. He could only break away from this painfully vague reverie as he saw her reach for the latch that locked the hen coop.

"What exactly are you up to?" he called across the small clearing.

Ginevra didn't jump at the sound of his voice, but she turned slowly and deliberately and fixed a pair of alarmingly dark eyes on him. Once more Tom was seized with that sick, familiar feeling that made his head spin. She blinked at him for the shortest of moments before her thin little chest rose in a great gasp and her eyes truly focussed on him.

"Oh!" she cried, stumbling back into the hen coop so that it jolted a bit and the fowl inside squawked in protest. "Tom," she whispered.

His mouth turned down in a frown. "What were you doing?" he demanded quietly.

She gazed silently at her surroundings, her little girl-like expression pale with confusion. "I…don't know-I mean I…." She looked at him again, squinting a little at the sun behind him. "I was just…out for a walk."

He regarded her with thinly veiled suspicion. Clearly, there was more to the girl then she was letting on. He could come to some conclusion about her with further contemplation, but right then, she was a strange embodiment of mystery.

Tom had planned to reply. He wanted to question her until she admitted her intentions, her secrets, or whatever brand of questionable behaviour she had taken up, but it was then that the giant groundskeeper rounded his hut, clearly having heard either the chickens or Tom's voice.

The groundskeeper gave his characteristic furtive, uneasy glance at Tom before resting on Ginevra. "Oh, back again, are yeh? Yeh've jus' missed him. I expect he's off fer the castle 'bout now."

Ginevra still had that startled expression in place and she nodded frozenly before hurrying off, leaving Tom standing uselessly in the middle of the groundskeeper's backyard. Hagrid seemed to be painfully aware of this fact as his beetle black eyes rested on Tom, who was all too familiar with the way Hogwarts' adults reacted to him. He raised his eyes listlessly to the giant-like man before turning haughtily away. "I'd keep an eye on those chickens if I were you," he remarked loftily, watching the languid lake in the distance.

There was a heavy silence as the groundskeeper paused, surveying Tom with great unease. "Oh, righ'…" he muttered, before hurrying away just as quickly.

Now armed with the benefit of hindsight, Tom did comfortably think that perhaps his old suspicions of last year had carried into this, and he should probably take care not to assume too much. Upon that being established, it was clear to him that he was really heading into a rather uneventful year.

* * *

Of course, that night was when he heard the voice for the first time.

It was rather late, getting to midnight, and Tom was forcing Neville to proof-read his own essay for the third time until the other boy understood that passive sentences would come back to haunt him when he wrote his theses in the more advanced classes.

"_Come to me…let me swallow your insides; look into my eyes…let me…"_

Tom sat up in his chair, looking about him. The voice had been loud, nearby, almost inside him, and the words too had been unmistakeable. Someone or something was inside the castle and whispering almost hypnotizing and lovingly these words of violence.

He rose and Neville, from his seat at the table, looked up at him. "Tired?" the boy asked if not a little hopefully.

Tom shot him a withering look. "That essay had better be perfect when I get back."

"But where are you going?"

He ignored Neville for the shortest moment, listening closer. The voice was still there and he knew it, but it was faint; a sound that could almost be mistaken for a remaining memory. He moved to the portrait hole.

"Wait…Tom!" Neville cried.

He turned back as an after-thought. "I'll be back in a short moment," he muttered vaguely, his ear still turned to the hallways distant.

It was as the Fat Lady's portrait shut behind him that the voice became a solid thing. He had no time to think on the words as the sound propelled him forward. As he took each step down the large stairway leading down from the Gryffindor tower, he could feel the sounds like whispers shaking his insides. It was a constant, never-ending susurration, and it was almost magnetic for him. He moved swiftly through the dark halls, feeling that almost familiar presence looming closer.

The entrance hall was empty as it should have been at this late hour, but Tom was still cautious as he stepped quickly past the locked doors of the Great Hall and moved into the darker, longer corridors. The voice was growing fainter. Tom was sure it was moving away-moving upwards. Excitement and apprehension filled him as he paused in the middle of the fourth-floor corridor, looking up at the ceiling. How was it moving upwards in that manner? Was it a phantom?

Then he heard footsteps.

His heart began to palpitate as he took three steps back, calculating the distance to the entrance hall where he could hide behind one of the statues in the darkness. He would have run, just then, but that feeling of familiarity had returned to him and his very breath seemed to echo against what was around the corner of the next corridor. Fear gripped him, but it was overpowered by intense curiosity as the footsteps approached. It must be the phantom… There was no mistaking it as the voice had stopped, now replaced by descending footsteps, coming closer, and closer.

And closer.

Tom stepped back into the shadows as an after-thought, suddenly realising the dire nature of his position. _Anything_ could be about to turn the corner, and who knew if this may very well be the last thought he may ever have. Tom's breath caught as he gripped the stone behind in some form of silent desperation. His wand slipped down from his sleeve and he raised it, ready to curse whatever it was into oblivion. The torches flickered in iron sconces, casting fantastic shadows, and in the corridor ahead a strange, misshapen silhouette appeared in the gloom.

Harry Potter turned the corner, and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Tom.

Tom would have given himself an inward kick if he weren't so thoroughly irritated at the sight of the other boy.

They stared at each other for a very heavy moment.

Finally Potter let out a sudden rush of air. "I thought you were…"

Tom knew what Potter had thought; he had been thinking the same thing himself, but he wasn't about to let Potter know that.

"What are you doing here?" Tom asked him testily.

"I…"Potter returned. "I had detention."

"Oh," he said before the pause that followed.

They didn't look at one another and Tom's irritation rose as he contemplated the scare Potter had just given him. It was ridiculous how this was perhaps the third time such a thing had happened.

"I'm going to bed," he snarled in Potter's general direction.

It wasn't until he started walking away that he realised if he had wanted to be rid of Potter's company, then he should probably have planned a different route or he should at least have refrained from announcing his destination. Now Potter was walking in the same direction at a distance of about six inches. Tom knew he had to be considerably mature about this situation. After all, it was just Potter and he wasn't doing anything. Tom would just have to endure the walk back to the dormitory, where he would sit in the Common Room and continue his review of the calculations between five measures of tanager feathers and its affect in equal to the volume of the feathers of an Oena.

"You're out here because you heard that voice, aren't you?"

Tom refused to react, which wasn't as difficult as the whole thing didn't come much of a surprise to him. _Of course_ Potter would have heard the voice too. "And if I did?"

Potter made a very frustrated sound. "Aren't you worried about what it is? Even if it's some ghost wandering around, he's talking about ripping someone apart."

Tom rolled his eyes in exasperation, but still didn't look at him. "Honestly, Potter; is this going to be one of your crusades for glory? Because I really want no part in it."

"You know, you're being a real prat about this!" the other boy shot back at him.

Tom stopped walking; his wand was still in his hand and quite ready to be used. He turned, lifting the wand to shoulder level, but the boy-hero already had pointed his in Tom's direction. He stared at Potter for a short moment, gauging the speed with which he might be able to curse him, wondering vaguely whether Potter knew any spells worth duelling.

"Look, I'm not after glory or anything. People are really getting the wrong idea, and you are too! If you think something about me then just _ask_!" Potter hissed at him in equal amounts of irritation.

Tom gave him a cavilling once-over, relishing the angry red colour that swept over the other boy's face. If people are getting the supposedly 'wrong' idea about you, perhaps it's wise to consider what it is you're doing to earn such a reputation."

Potter paused, his spectacles gold with the fire of the torch as he looked down thoughtfully. "Like last summer…"

Tom's eyes narrowed.

"Tom, I wanted to owl you-"

Potter lowered his wand, but Tom had not made such a mistake. The spell was ready on his lips as he slashed three stripes in the air, saying, "_Incidere_!"

Tom had been aiming at his face, hoping irrationally to give the boy another scar, but the boy-hero dodged to avoid the attack. Even so, he didn't manage to completely evade the jinx and Tom watched with no little satisfaction as three bright pink welts appeared near his collarbone and Potter fell back against the stone wall. Shallow, bloodless, but still painful.

As the other boy slumped to the floor in shock, Tom stepped over him, gazing down with a wide curl of his mouth. "You know, I never did believe you were after glory. I think that that would probably be giving you too much credit," he sneered quietly and before Potter could reply, he began to make his way down the corridor.

He really should have been aware that it would happen. In fact, what with his overall skill at deduction, such a truth should have been painfully obvious to him. Despite all this, however, he was unpleasantly surprised when he heard his own spell hollered back at him and he felt a stripe of pain strike his ankle. Falling ungracefully to the floor, he turned and glared at Potter, raising his wand in defence raising his wand again, but the boy-hero was already on his feet, walking briskly toward him.

Tom made to cast something equally as painful on the other boy, but Potter said, "_Petrificus Totalus!_"

Humiliation burned him. How could he have let his guard down like this? It was pure carelessness on his part and he _had_ to find some way to rectify the situation before the other boy could take advantage of his weakness. His limbs were jammed against his sides and, unable to turn his head, he could only observe Potter.

Tom expected triumph to be rampant in the other boy's eyes, but he saw frustration and if anything, worry. "Look," Potter said, gesturing with his wand uselessly. "I just want you to _listen_ like you listened to me back home."

Tom couldn't even make a scathing reply.

"Something happened on my birthday. I was given a warning…" The Boy Who Lived paused and knelt down near Tom's unmoving form. "Look, I don't feel right about this. I'm going to let you go. Just…just stay and listen, okay?"

The spell was lifted and Tom sat up with a flush of anger. He thought it might be both uncouth and petty to return the misdeed, so he kept his hands at his sides. Sure, he would listen if only because the other boy had mentioned a warning.

"What was the warning, Potter?" he replied evenly, not looking at the other boy.

"I was told not to come to school by a house elf; in fact, he sort of threatened me in a way. I just-I think there's something coming, but I don't know what it is. I didn't really think so before; I thought it was a prank of Malfoy's-"

"What?!" Tom broke out despite himself, which made Potter start in surprise.

"Erm…" Potter the Articulate said.

Tom withdrew back into himself and began to think quickly. Malfoy had approached him just Friday, but why should Potter make the connection between Malfoy and a…house elf? Ah, he had read about those in _Hogwarts: A History_. The house elves were castle-servants or house servants within the school's employ. People owned them. How strange that one of them should visit Potter to _warn_ him.

"Anyway," the boy-hero continued, "I was thinking that its better if we talk about this—you know, work together this time instead of…er…suspecting each other."

Tom frowned. He couldn't quite think of what to say in response at the moment.

"I'm pretty sure it's not really anything, but I thought it would be better if we were…erm…sure."

Tom was quite aware that they had been in that corridor for a little over thirty minutes and that they were in danger of being caught. He was also very much aware that to deny Potter his one and very strange comfort would mean another duel that would result in more time wasted and perhaps more injuries if he didn't keep his wits about him.

"Fine," he returned shortly. "We're sure. I am not responsible for whatever may or may not be coming and nor are you."

"Right," Potter said grimly, peeking at him in a strange and shrewd manner.

Tom stood. "Right," he echoed unconsciously. He turned away once more and began to walk back down the hall, choosing not to be mindful of Potter's following footsteps. Was this a truce? "_Hardly_," he thought irritably back at himself. "_This will keep him out of my way this year._"

* * *

Though Tom had since concluded that he absolutely needed to speak with Malfoy further on this issue, he knew he had to bide his time. At that juncture, Tom would be addressing the issue on _Malfoy's_ terms rather than his own. He needed to manipulate the situation in such a way that Malfoy would have no choice but to tell him absolutely _everything._

For the mean time, Ginevra was serving as a strange and unexpected source of distraction. It was a week later when he saw her. Apart from heading toward the Great Hall for breakfast, she was making her way to the Groundskeeper's hut.

Formerly, he had concluded that the only reason she'd be likely to make visits to that man's hut was because of Potter. She was clearly smitten by the boy-hero, but it certainly didn't make sense for her to steer so near to the hen coop and it also failed to make any semblance of sense when it appeared that Potter was quite obviously in the Great Hall eating breakfast like everyone else.

Tom, who had been walking behind her that morning, saw her take the detour outside, and didn't hesitate to follow along.

Her book bag was strangely absent and she walked slowly and determinedly in the lake's direction as the September winds rifled through her robes. It was puzzling once more as it had been that one Saturday afternoon. If she truly meant for her excursions to be secret, then why did she make the trips out in the open, during daylight like that. His curiosity piqued he folded his arms over his chest and called, "You do know Potter's inside the Great Hall, don't you?"

As if rising from the depth of water, she turned slowly and Tom was struck with how it seemed a precise parody of what she had done the first time he had caught her near the hen-coop. This time she looked at him in alarm, her mouth forming a little "o" of a moment's disbelief.

"_How could she have been so blissfully unaware that I had been following her?" _Tom thought incredulously. He, having had quite enough of this ridiculous behaviour, looked around for anyone who might be watching, hissed out an exasperated sigh before he took five steps toward her and seized her by the collar. The little girl protested, but he paid little mind as he hauled her in front of him to the shrubberies beside the school entrance.

"Listen," he snarled delicately, upon ensuring they were well-concealed. "You should be fully aware that I'm doing you a favour when I tell you that you it couldn't be _more_ obvious that you're up to something…"

Her round brown eyes might have been the only thing betraying the emotion that wasn't fear. "I'm not-"

"I don't need to hear it!" he spat. "If you want to go about doing something stupid at _my_ school, then you had better do well not to get caught! And should you be caught, you had better _pray_ that it's the Headmaster himself because you'll wish you'd stayed home with Mummy after _I've_ dealt with you. Do you understand me?"

She made several valiant efforts to disentangle his fingers from her robes, but he gave her an abrupt shake that made her look momentarily addled as she yelped quietly.

"_Do_ you _understand_ me?"

She nodded bravely, wide-eyes transfixed disbelievingly on him.

He had known she would see some sense. It was so simple to frighten little girls like that. It was entirely her fault, though, for being so unbearably vulnerable and thinking for even a moment that she could fool _him_. He intended to keep an eye on her. He didn't care what she was _really_ up to, but the fact that she had carried about her the mistaken impression that she could go undetected vexed Tom to no end. If she didn't make the decision then to smarten up, he could vow to make her first year at Hogwarts a hell worth remembering.

It was in that sensible perception that he was able to form his lips into a passable smile and he smoothed down the robes at her collar in a decidedly brotherly fashion. "_So_," he continued softly, "I'll be watching you. I thought it would be fair that I warn you, that way I won't have to waste anymore any more time like this."

She gave another shaky nod. He mimicked the nod gesture with a bit of a mocking tilt to his head before he turned, and made for the school's front steps.

And he did watch her. Within the remains of September to the middle of October, he'd taken great pleasure in seeing her blanch when she caught sight of his following gaze. He took care with his studies and remained ahead, but he knew Ginevra's class schedule soon enough that the sight of her red hair was a routine in his walks up and down the corridor to and from class.

And despite the chance encounter with Potter that one Saturday night, Tom had not heard the strange voice again, which meant that he had not been called to communicate with the other boy except to return the nod addressed to him in the mornings and when they happened to make the less-than-frequent eye-contact during class. Tom ratified this by taking care to select seats behind Potter after one exceptionally strange and awkward Herbology class where he kept looking up to see Potter glancing away only to look back determinedly a second later as if to challenge his own sense of decorum.

As the month wore on, Tom's concerns about the warning from Malfoy were pushed further to the back of his mind and his sense of alert when it came to Ginevra slowed as she had taken up a life of strict mediocrity. Even Neville's improvements were part of the little rituals of Tom's school life.

As a generality, it was shaping up to be a pretty normal year.

Tom had thought this with quite a lot of conviction until the night of the Hallowe'en feast. He had been sitting at the Gryffindor table, talking to Neville about the possibility of transforming the Cooling Charm into a literal rain of ice and whether it would be possible with a mere alteration of a Wizard-Latin morpheme.

Neville had brought a quill and parchment with him and was frantically writing down Tom's different suggestions with the occasional bubble of laughter at some of the more outrageous ones.

"I could try changing the '_glacies'_ into a simple '_oppugno'. _Imagine what could happen, Neville, if I left it vague like that!"

Neville scribbled that down and frowned at the paper. "You could maybe communicate non-verbally the element you want to apply, couldn't you?" he said with some disquiet.

"Or even allow your magic to conjure an entire new element," Tom returned, reaching for the sheet of parchment.

Neville rested his elbows on the table and chewed his lower lip. "Brilliant," the other boy breathed after a moment.

Tom grinned. There were a great many possibilities with magic that still went untapped. If he could learn to control most of these things, he could perhaps become the most powerful wizard on earth. To switch elements meant to breech into alchemy and _that_ would carry him even further.

"Where would be a safe place to try it out, though," Neville broke in. "I know _you'd_ be able to control it, but what if _I_ can't."

Tom nodded amiably. "If I try it and manage to harness that secret, then there's no doubt that I can teach you how to do the same. You've become a quick learner, Neville."

Neville positively beamed at that one.

Tom evened it with an exasperated turn of his mouth as he scanned the table. He didn't see Potter, which of course was a welcome relief, but there was something else nagging at him. He had overlooked something. His mind whirring, he scanned the group of noisy First-Year girls near the other end of the table.

"Where is Ginevra?" he demanded quietly.

Neville, surprised at the change in Tom's mood, looked around. "Huh! I never really spotted her in here at all. Perhaps she's not well. She has been looking a bit peaky. Just the other day-"

Tom ignored Neville and stood from his seat, looking carefully through the sea of heads. No Ginevra.

"Tom?" Neville queried as was his wont.

He barely glanced at the other boy as he leaned down and muttered. "Watch the crowd; let me know if you see her."

"Why not just wait til the feast's over. It'll be ending right after dessert, won't it?"

Tom shot him a glare. "Just do as I say, Neville."

Neville adopted a resigned, martyred look, but nodded nonetheless. Tom looked once more about the table quickly just in case before he made for the open doors at the end of the Great Hall.

His initial plan had been to go outside and check by the Groundskeeper's hut, but he tried the front double doors and realised with some disconcertion that they were locked tight with a huge padlock and some chains. It was clear that they were making efforts to prevent the debacle of last years's Hallowe'en and with Filch and all the rest of the staff in the Great Hall, no one had had the opportunity to go outside. That meant she must still be inside the castle. Tom knew he had seen her just before the feast; she had been sitting in the Common Room writing in that silly diary of hers.

Tom frowned. What was it, really, that had him looking for Ginevra with such dedication; had him watching her like a protective predator? Perhaps he had found himself once again disenchanted with the inevitable idea that the Wizarding World was about as pedestrian as his former world; the boring, old world that was no longer his. After all, throughout the last month, things had become so based upon the regular routine and Tom had made very little progress in his discoveries. Poor Tom found himself in a state of disbelief as he came to the conclusion that he, with all sincerity, missed the feel of his First Year.

This was the state of mind that he was in when he heard the voice.

It was distant, foreboding, but everywhere at once in his head. A ringing filled his ears and it tormented him with strange eclipses of a forgotten reality. A flash here and there of a stinging truth…he couldn't define it, but it was colourful and meaningful next to the voice that whispered unsavoury invitations of painful death. And death was the last thing he wanted, but it drew him in.

"_Come to me for I've been hungry for so long…starving so long. I smell flesh…blood; take me near, bring them to me…_

Tom ran.

The noises of the Great Hall had long since faded and he stood in a corridor that smelled musty from lack of use. Tom took one step and felt water soak into his sock. He looked down, and pooled all around the corridor was what appeared to be water. The flickering torch bracket in the far end of the corridor seemed to shiver in the cold air and Tom's eyes darted back and forth carefully, wary of anyone. He could feel it. It was there and practically looking at him, but he couldn't see past the shadow behind the torches.

Pausing only to speculate, he made his way through the rest of the water, still drawn by his gut-feeling. He would deal with this problem _early_ while ensuring that he could benefit much more than his first year.

"Harry, what was that all about? I couldn't hear anything!"

Tom, no longer fearful of what he was about to encounter, walked forward briskly just in time to catch sight of the figures of Potter, Hermione, and Weasley gazing in awestruck disbelief at the wall, and then Tom saw it, too.

It was like a weak imitation of a cheap horror film. Something red was daubed across the wall in silk-like shiny streaks bearing the words…

**The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir beware.**

Beneath this message, the castle Caretaker's cat hung, frozen, by its tail from the torch bracket. Its wide, cat eyes were glassy and still seemed to observe the current situation. As Potter and his friends took notice of the cat, Tom calmly bent down and looked closely down at the frozen animal. He was already thinking.

"_Heir? Heir to what? And who is his enemy? And what does this cat imply? The voice led me here and is clearly the culprit. Would this mean that this supposed Heir is present in this school? Or is it merely a spokesperson; a supporter of a sort. Chamber of Secrets may very well be a metaphor for something, but I have to find out what manner of heir this is."_

"Tom!"

He turned irritably at the sound of Hermione's voice. Harry was looking down at him calculatingly as Weasley and Hermione eyed him with some suspicious concern. He rose. "We shouldn't be found here," he stated bluntly, looking around.

"Yes," Weasley returned curtly, his long and needle-like features twisted down in dislike. "That's what I just said. We have to get out of here."

They had not taken into consideration the timing, however. Within moments, there was a distant rumble and the sound of after-feast chatter rocketed up to their corridor. Tom took two steps back as both ends of the corridor filled with students. Very soon, they were surrounded by a shocked and silent throng.

It was then a shout that was unmistakeably Malfoy's echoed around the crowded corridor and when Tom caught sight of the boy's usually sickly pale face that he knew. This was it. This was the very thing he had been warned about and it was time to corner the little brat.

As the murmurs of the crowd rose higher and a few professors swept onto the scene, Tom stared down at the old frozen cat, thinking of the nature of Hogwarts castle. He had marked up an entire section in his copy of a _Hogwarts: A History_ about the mythic secrets of the ancient school, those of which had been disproved. Perhaps he needed to look over the issue, but it was possible that he was giving the author too much credit. Perhaps this was an undiscovered secret, a secret meant to be discovered within the year.

"Tom."

Tom looked up, not at the sound of his name, but at the way his name had been spoken. A statement of sorts with just a hint of an inflection, but none of it was questioning, and it was none too polite. Tom glared up into the imposing and sharp blue eyes of the Headmaster.

Dumbledore surveyed Tom with a determinedly stoic expression. "Follow me to my office, if you please," the old man said softly.

Tom could only set his teeth as it occurred to him that he had only succeeded in compromising himself.


	8. Chapter Seven

**A/N: Ok, this chapter is dedicated to IrishHufflepuff. A darling boy after my own heart and an appreciator of the finer things in life such as lime lollipops, Tom's new liking for them, and how both combined serve as a welcome distraction. Since his birthday-fic is going through a tough process, I write this chapter in his favour to ease the flood of impatience that threatens to consume him.**

**And a warm thank you to the readers and reviewers as well as those of you who just fave. The thought that you enjoy this keeps me going. **

* * *

**-Time Or Manner-**

Chapter 7

It was as Dumbledore bore down on him that Tom became suddenly aware of his surroundings. Filch was now leaned up against the stone wall near the bright red message, heaving with wet sobs and anguished cries. Potter was staring at Tom with an expression of abject concern. 

He shouldn't have been so careless; retaining a clean reputation was vital where the school was concerned. Now it was too late.

Tom met the gaze of the old Headmaster, who only seconds before had requested Tom's presence in his office. "_No._" Tom back-tracked internally. "_They have no evidence that it was me. Yes, I may be under some suspicion considering the circumstances, but all I need do is explain what I have seen, and that will be that. I am a witness, not a convict."_

Yet, he couldn't help feeling a modicum of unease when Dumbledore said, "Minerva, take Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, and Mr. Weasley to your office; I'd like a word with this young man before we do anything more."

He felt Neville's presence near his shoulder and the other boy's fingers caught at his sleeve. It came across as a ridiculously protective gesture this time, and Tom refused to move. Several pairs of eyes were fixed on the scene, and even as McGonagall began to guide Potter and the other two away, he continued to face the Headmaster unblinkingly. He had nothing to hide and he felt it was necessary by some intuitive thought to keep this fact at the forefront of his mind.

Tom didn't say anything to Neville as he shook his arm free and followed Dumbledore down the dark corridor.

He was expecting something regal; something that resembled a kingly and royal chamber. What Tom saw was a madman's office. Though it seemed to retain much of its former glory with its wide space and circular structure, Dumbledore's office was cluttered with what could be named junk. The only thing that remained bare was the large claw-footed desk that of which Dumbledore swept around and promptly sat behind.

"Have a seat, Tom." His calm, benevolence was heavy with something Tom couldn't quite place.

The high-backed wooden chair stood centred and ominous before Dumbledore's large desk. As Tom approached it, he felt this odd sense of déjà vu and he paused. Bracing himself, he stepped forward and sat promptly on the wooden chair and met the cold blue gaze across the wide expanse of cherry-red wood.

A small natural smile appeared on the old man's thin lips as he surveyed Tom for the shortest of moments. "It seems we have not had the opportunity to speak with one another since you've arrived last year. How do you find Hogwarts?"

Tom set his jaw before he replied quietly. "I've learned a lot of useful things here, sir." But he was thinking, _Speak with one another? Is it a common practice for a Headmaster governing thousands of students to take each one aside and speak with them?_

"That's good to hear. After all, many of the professors have informed me of your adeptness within the bounds of magic."

_Within the bounds? _"I do what I can…"

The tips of Dumbledore's fingers came together as he leaned forward over his desk. "And in so doing, what are your intentions?"

_Intentions? Could he be speaking of my goals outside of school or within the school? This whole exchange is completely out of context if he intends to ask me about my future goals._

The headmaster chuckled. "I apologise, Tom. I should rephrase my question as you must find it quite unsatisfactory.

_Indeed, _Tom thought indignantly.

"I mean to inquire as to whether you find yourself experiencing any qualms, short-comings, things that displease you about the school."

Tom made sure that he checked his expression. "Things that displease me…sir?"

"Speak freely as if you were writing a criticism. Come now, Tom; I do happen to know that you're quite clever."

A light seemed to go on in Tom's mind as it occurred to him that he was being offered a bare opportunity. There were _many_ things about the school he should much like to change; there were hundreds of things he would like to change about the Wizarding World. But Tom was no idiot. "I don't think it's really my place to criticise…"

There was a lengthy pause. 

Finally Dumbledore sighed, lowering his hands to the desk. "It appears that you are aware of last year's attack on Hogwarts; Harry Potter has informed me of your involvement in the situation. Having said that, I feel you display a remarkable perceptivity to your surroundings enabling you to take actions others would not. Is this not so?"

While he was not feeling up to negating this admission, he still felt the necessity to be cautious. "Potter did much the same, sir."

A flicker of something crossed the old man's features. "Yes, precisely! Last term it was Mr. Potter's decision to make a difference, but you were outshined in that vein, were you not?"

Tom couldn't answer. He was spectacularly dumbfounded. 

"Perhaps…" the Headmaster continued softly, "it is _your_ turn."

Were Tom a completely different person, he would have assumed that Dumbledore was labelling him with a new purpose, but for the tone; for the way in which the old man had trumped up the statement. No, he wanted a confirmation; he wanted Tom to admit to his own desire for change. _Why?_ he asked silently. _Is this a conversation he had so longed to have with me since last term? Did he see the presence of a dead cat as the ripe opportunity to corner me?_

Then it occurred to Tom that Dumbledore was a little more clever than he had given him credit for, which pleased him somewhat because it meant that _he_ could be just as clever in return. Tom affected a sheepish and shy smile. "But Professor Dumbledore… _surely_ you'd have already addressed the problems."

Dumbledore returned the smile and his bright blue eyes gave the faintest of twinkles. "How prompt of you to say so, Tom. It is evident, however, from your words that you _are _under the impression that Hogwarts is in need of some change."

Tom's smile slipped an inch.

"Now if you would kindly answer one question for me before we move on…"

Tom was now frowning.

"You may assume that I merely request a young man's unique perspective on the subject when I ask you: what do you make of that message on the wall?"

Tom gripped the sides of his chair, digging the tips of his fingernails into the grain of the wood. He had to be very careful; he wasn't sure why he should feel suspected, but the feeling was there. "I don't know what the Chamber of Secrets is, sir. And as to the heir: I'm not aware of familial bloodlines within the Wizarding World. I…I'm Muggleborn, you see."

Dumbledore's thin white eyebrows rose to his forehead in high surprise. "I see. _Of__course_, a Muggleborn couldn't be expected to know these things, and being an orphan, you would be inclined to ignore any mention of lineage as it does not pertain to you."

Besides the fact that Tom now knew there could be no possible way that Dumbledore would speak so casually with a student on a whim like this, Tom knew there was something horribly wrong with the entire conversation. The tone in the Headmaster's voice had been light, but expectant as if knowing there would be a reaction he was looking for, a confirmation of something…but what? Did the Headmaster honestly believe that he was the one who did such a thing to that cat? On what grounds? That he had simply _been_ there?

"Please, sir," Tom began softly. "What is it that you called me here for?"

Dumbledore's smile was immoveable. "To assure you that lineage means _nothing_, really. A Muggleborn, like yourself, may do great things the same as a boy of pureblood lineage." The old man rose from his seat and came around the desk to survey Tom from a standing point.

"May I go, sir?" Tom breathed.

"You may go, Tom. If anything should be brought to your attention, know that you should come to me first; I will never turn you away at the door, of course."

It was as he rose, never taking his eyes off the old Headmaster, that he found he had to start back in surprise. Dumbledore's long fingers had wrapped around his right wrist for a miniscule second. Tom stared, with some outrage, at the professor. 

Dumbledore let go; his smile had dimmed at the edges, and his eyes no longer laughed. "Just to ensure that we are in communication…"

With these words, Tom felt a cold weight jar his wrist and he looked down. Wrapped about his wrist was a silvery, nearly invisible thread, as white as the old man's beard, but sizzling with magical conquest. Poor Tom's fists clenched; he was now unable to contain the wave of dislike he felt for the old man.

"What is this?" he snapped, pulling at the thread. It was strong as steel, expandable, but not enough for him to slip his hand through. He was already in the midst of its analysis: something to keep him from using magic? A string by which he might be called to order? 

Dumbledore gave a vague nod and a sad smile. "It's just for protection, Tom; a _precaution_, if you will. You should be off for bed; I have other things to attend to just now and we will be in communication."

Tom dropped his hand from his own wrist as he spent a long and heated moment attempting to gain the bearings of the old man's mind, but he found nothing but complete blankness. Biting the inside of his lip, Tom stormed from the office.

* * *

As soon as the portrait-hole entrance swung shut, Tom aimed a furious kick at one of the nearby armchairs. The force of his foot against it did little harm and his fingers curled into his palms as he ground his teeth. 

_How dare he-bloody fool of a headmaster- accuse me? Me! How dare he for a moment think that I would allow him to suspect me; that I would make my own involvement in this so obvious? He must know his mistake before the year is out!_

"What did Dumbledore say to you?" 

Tom's head whipped up to focus on Neville who had just risen from his seat on the steps leading up to the boy's dormitory. There was absolutely no way he could convey the situation to Neville without the other boy thinking him somewhat responsible. Perhaps to say that he was suspect was to open the other boy's mind to the prospect of Tom being the one to kill Filch's cat. _Yes_, Tom thought snidely. _Even Neville would betray me; I have not done enough to gain his full loyalty; he doesn't owe me enough_. 

As these thoughts zigzagged their way through his mind, Neville walked toward him, looking-if anything- wary and shrewd and it was all Tom could do to compose himself quickly.

"It was nothing; I'm a primary witness to the matter and Dumbledore wished to know what I'd seen."

Neville's eyes narrowed immediately. "Then what made you so angry?"

"Angry?" he returned lightly. "What would make you think I'm angry?"

The other boy gave a frustrated sigh. "I saw how you looked when you came in, _and _I saw how the Headmaster was looking at you before he called you away. He thought you did it, didn't he?"

Tom stared at him.

Neville shrugged. "What did you say to convince him that you were innocent?"

Shock caught hold of him as he stared incredulously at the boy he thought too naïve a moment ago.

The other boy made a vague gesture. "Anyway, he _won't _be able to prove you did it, not if we bring up Malfoy's statement just earlier, plus what he said to you the other week. See? Don't worry."

"I _don't_ worry," was Tom's instant reply, but it didn't come out as sharp as he might have liked. Instead, he moved over to the fireplace to think. Neville followed and sat in the armchair near him. He needed to grasp his bearings, set plans, make a way to ensure that his implication within the whole business would be cleared and quickly. First things first, he needed to corner the Malfoy brat, force him to explain just what his father had told him, and then he could read up on the castle mythology in his copy of _Hogwarts: A History._

_No,_ he thought, _I must first begin with Dumbledore. He spoke of changes, and that seemed to spin wildly away from the purpose of the conversation as he claimed that the real reason he had called me there was "_to assure me that lineage means _nothing_?" _What would he mean, and why that reason?_ Tom, half lost in his own speculation, glanced at Neville.

Neville was silent, blinking down at the fire behind Tom, his round blue eyes rimmed with flames of thought. 

"Neville," Tom said quietly.

The other boy looked up, ready, like an eager puppy. "Yes?"

Slowly, carefully Tom reached for his sleeve and pulled the fabric up from his right wrist. "What do you see…here, Neville?"

Neville stood, coming up to observe the space of skin Tom had bared to him. The thread was there, mocking and silvery iron wrapped about his arm in contrast to the blue veins standing out through his flesh.

"…I don't see much besides your sleeve," Neville muttered. His tentative tone was implicative of the fact that he was well aware his answer would be considered erroneous.

Tom patiently slipped a finger beneath the thread so Neville could see. "Well?"

Neville stared down at Tom's finger for a long minute. 

A primal panic was rising in Tom's gut, but he repressed it quickly as his mouth turned down in a little frown. "Nothing?"

The other boy gave an apologetic shake of his head as he looked up at Tom.

Tom dropped his wrist and looked back at the fire. The whole ordeal was very serious; much more serious than he imagined it to be in the first place. Dumbledore had, by some enchantment, imprisoned him in something and ensured that no one else could possibly find out. The question to ask was what the iron thread could do to him. Would it keep him from doing magic? Would it mark down what manner of magic it was he used? Tom was quite sure that it was the latter that bothered him much more. 

"What was it I was supposed to see, Tom?" Neville queried quietly.

It was better not to get Neville involved just yet. If he needed him to perform certain tasks for him he would be at hand and unsuspected. Yet, it was important to put him in the know regardless. He saw no real need to keep things in the dark especially where Neville's loyalty would come into question. "I'll be honest with you, Neville." He turned and faced the other boy. "Dumbledore seems to be under the impression that I've orchestrated or was at least involved in tonight's incident. He has placed a certain enchantment on me and I am still unsure as to its nature."

What impressed Tom the most then wasn't the fact that Neville said, "What do you want me to do?" in that new earnest and dark tone of his, but the fact that there wasn't a hint of panic in his voice. It was not so much _self_-confidence that Neville displayed right then, but more of a confidence in _him_, and that may have heartened him a bit. Tom was not a fool so as to refuse to acknowledge that he had misjudged Neville. 

"We'll deal with this soon enough. For now, research…"

* * *

It was the winning topic of discussion within Hogwarts; the bewitching of Filch's cat. It almost seemed too risky for Tom to bother investigating that particular corridor in open daylight. Though he very much wanted to corner Malfoy immediately, Tom felt it was better to make himself as informed as possible before he took on the possible lies the little brat might spin in his favour. He needed base facts and so he had Neville on the prowl for any suspicious knowledge. It was skill the other boy had become quite adept at.

It wasn't until Wednesday, however, that he was able to find out anything. Neville slipped in a bit late to Charms and took his seat at Tom's right as Flitwick began roll call. Tom gave Neville a glance; the other boy was chewing on his bottom lip as he looked curiously at Potter a few desks over.

"Well?" Tom whispered from the side of his mouth.

Neville leaned low over his books, his frown too evident. "I was just talking to one of the Slytherin prefects and it turns out _Dumbledore_ may suspect you, but other people don't. Most are convinced they saw you during the feast; you wouldn't have had the time."

"Though not nearly enough to clear my name, it's something of a relief," Tom remarked dispassionately."But why do you look like that?"

A bitter smile broke out over the other boy's features. "The heir in the message is the Heir of Slytherin."

Tom looked away to face the front of the classroom, his mind racing. _Enemies of the Heir beware…_

"And…Tom?" Neville continued tentatively.

"What else?"

"They think Potter's the one."

Tom's gaze snapped to Neville's. "What?"

"Some of the Ravenclaws developed a theory that since he was conveniently absent that evening and the first to be found…"

Tom glanced at Potter over Neville's head. As Flitwick demonstrated the Drying Charm, Potter was staring steadily out the window and only the back of his head was turned in Tom's direction. Tom looked away. Typically, after a year of tailing the other boy trying to find one thing, just that _one thing_ which could implicate the boy-hero, Tom knew better than to jump on suppositions. No, it was time to find out the truth before things got too far out of hand.

"We, of course, know that's absurd," Tom finally replied and Neville nodded readily, quite pleased that he, himself, had come to the right conclusion on his own.

"So what should we do? I figured you would want to find the real culprit, right?"

Flitwick was coming around to their table so Tom quickly used the Drying Charm on his wet towel and Neville did the same. The diminutive professor passed with his usual weak smile in their direction. Once he had passed, they resumed their discussion. 

"I _do_ want to do just that. First I need to confirm this matter about the Heir of Slytherin, whether it's plausible to assume the message refers to a Founder's heir…and who can be traced back that far."

Neville nodded. "Well, there is that chapter about the founders in _Hogwarts: A History_."

"Yes. I read that chapter yesterday. It appears that the chamber was a result of a disagreement. The whole thing is written off as myth, so we can't disregard the idea that this may all be some form of…hoax."

"Hoax? You mean the attempt on Mrs. Norris was a hoax?"

"No. I mean the Heir idea; it's not unlikely for someone to think they'll strike much more fear into people's minds if they come up with a title which will precede them."

"Oh, that might be it."

"We need old records of the school's history. _Hogwarts: A History_ leaves too much to be desired. It's nearly an advertisement for the school at times, but…I think our best bet at this time, is to find out what Malfoy knows."

* * *

The first instance they could find Malfoy alone was that very afternoon when Tom suggested to Neville that they skip History of Magic to look for him. He was exiting the boy's toilet near the dungeons and Crabbe and Goyle had already descended to the Slytherin Common Room. Malfoy was quite unmindful of his surroundings, so it was simple for Neville to step forward, grab Malfoy about the collar and haul him back in with Tom following right behind them. 

Once they'd entered the restroom, Tom checked the stalls quickly, flinging the doors open with a sweep of his wand. It was early yet and most Slytherins would have gone to their Common Room bathroom so they were quite safe for the time being. He walked quickly to the door and cast a double locking charm on the handle and then the hinges for good measure. He turned and faced Neville, who had taken the liberty of casting a Silencing Charm on the other boy.

"_Petrificus Partialus!_" he sneered Malfoy's way and the boy's body went rigid under the hold. Neville let Malfoy go in an unkind manner causing the other boy to thump to the floor. The blonde's mouth was working like a fish out of water as he struggled to yell past the Silencing Charm.

Tom smirked. "I'd release you, but it seems the noise you're about to make may irritate Neville."

Malfoy's grey eyes, now wild with panic, glanced at Neville. Neville's expression was surprisingly impassive as he looked back at him. 

"But," Tom continued, dropping the single word like a lonely raindrop off a leaf, "if you're interested in keeping quiet for a bit, we may be able to compromise."

Malfoy's mouth shut tight and he nodded frantically. 

Tom only sighed. "But how do I know you're being truthful? It's so hard to trust people, you know."

A pause followed this. A pause without any real purpose but to find out just what Malfoy would choose to do. The irritating little sod's shoulders sagged and that was all that was needed for the situation. Tom lifted the bind and the Silencing Charm.

Malfoy scrambled up from his position on the floor and took two calculated steps away from Neville who was silently looking at him, wand poised.

"Now," Tom went on calmly, obliging to Malfoy's silence. "A week ago you approached me in the courtyard with information from your father. I will admit that it piqued our interest. We arranged this appointment so as to be enlightened. So…"

Malfoy, who had been listening to this with a rising look of distress, looked blank. There were a lot of brats who passed through the Foster home and it was only regular for Tom to have to deal with an occasional uncooperative one. Malfoy happened to be just the epitome of said brats.

"To make this easier on you, I will assemble all of my concerns into a series of simple questions. Those of which I am right to assume you will answer to my satisfaction?"

There was a silence before Malfoy nodded.

"Do the recent events have anything to do with your message of warning?"

The white-haired boy appeared to have taken up a form of jittery silence as he nodded jerkily. Neville and Tom's eyes met in confirmation.

"I am aware that your father forbade you from relating too much, but I'm under the slight impression that should I remain blind in this, I may not be able obey his instructions of 'keeping my head down'. So I'd think, at this moment, it would benefit both of us if you would only _tell_ me what to expect."

Malfoy's pallor, if possible, deepened. "I-I can't. My father wouldn't tell me, would he? He says the Heir of Slytherin will begin cleansing the school this year and that I shouldn't interfere with him and that I should tell you the same."

Tom raised a sardonic brow. "And this is satisfying for you?" 

Malfoy gave a half-shrug. "I guess. I mean, my father's a politician." Here he raised his chin and appeared quite proud of the fact. "He's on the school board and he wouldn't allow something that would hurt anyone that mattered."

"Anyone that mattered…" he repeated softly. "You shouted something that Hallowe'en night…if you would refresh his memory, Neville?"

"Enemies of the heir, beware; you'll be next Mudbloods'," Neville quoted softly, a disgusted turn to his mouth.

Tom's voice was low and testing. "What does that mean Malfoy; the word, 'Mudblood'?"

It was abrupt, but not enough to startle Tom. Malfoy's panicked and obliging manner dropped and his sneer slipped back onto his lips. "Don't you two get it?" he demanded, looking at both of them interchangeably. "The Wizarding World is being corrupted! Wizards who have power are turning our blood into water; we'll die out soon enough and the magic is carrying into the Muggle world, giving birth to those-those-filthy excuses for witches and wizards!"

Neville stepped forward. "You disgusting rat! That doesn't count for anything anymore; that's an old i-ideology!"

Pink flew into Malfoy's cheeks. "Don't tell me you're following in the footsteps of your _parents_!" he hissed, his eyes glittering with pure hatred.

Both boys drew out their wands, but Tom was quick. "_Expelliarmus!_" He was half-irritated, half-pleased as he had not had the opportunity to try that one until just then, but there was nothing more irritating then being left out of the conversation because he didn't _know_ what they were talking about. Tom caught both wands and slipped them both in his robe pocket.

"I'm going to assume that you are both arguing in _theory_ and you haven't given way to an ideological war neither of you understand," he stated calmly.

Neville frowned and went quiet, but Malfoy wasn't nearly as clever. "Of course I understand; my father's told me how the Mudbloods are overrunning Hogwarts, and Dumbledore, who _loves_ non-magical people encourages it. It's time for change and the Heir of Slytherin's going to be the one to make it happen!"

"_Pneum Aufero_," Tom snapped, waving his wand to eject a ball of oxygen from the other boy's lungs. "Well, you're not the Heir of Slytherin, are you? So shut up or people will think you are and have reason to implicate you!"

Malfoy was still gasping as he slumped quickly to the floor, his hands scrambling for something near his throat. Tom and Neville watched as Malfoy pulled out a small phial and unscrewed the silver top. He tipped back his head, still repressing his gasps as a tiny blue coloured drop fell from the phial into his mouth. Tom's eyebrows raised as Malfoy's breathing slowed. Neville seemed torn between offering help and standing off.

When the Slytherin looked up at Tom, his grey eyes were watery with pain. He also looked faintly embarrassed. "Were you trying to kill me or something?" he snapped, tucking the phial back into his robes. "I have a _condition_."

Tom cocked his head curiously. "You seemed all right last year."

Malfoy frowned and seemed to be irritated at that. "Yes well, last year is when I had the first…attack last January. My heart stopped and I woke up in…some room. After that…look, it's just really not _on_ to be casting random curses about. You're lucky I had my _Viscuvita_ drops or my father would have had a fit!"

Tom's initial reaction was to glance at Neville and he was quite glad that he had for Neville had gone as white as a sheet. "_Cavusa Vita,_" Neville murmured, his jaw slack.

Malfoy, having been preoccupied with his own embarrassment, turned to Neville. "What's that?" he queried.

Tom drew Malfoy's wand from his pocket and swiftly handed it to him. "Nothing. Draco, tell me your full name, would you?"

This distracted the other boy as Neville looked around the toilet helplessly, his hands shaking.

"My full name? Draco Hadrian Malfoy-why?" 

Tom shrugged. "Just curious; you should go-your friends will be wondering where you've been."

Malfoy nodded absently, pocketing his wand as he exited the room.

A wretching noise turned Tom's attention away from the door. Neville had scrambled for one of the stalls and had taken to being violently sick. Tom sighed in exasperation and stalked after the other boy. "Will you get a hold of yourself? It's really not that much of a problem! They'll never find out it was you!"

The shut stall door stood between them and Tom could only hear as Neville shifted from his evident position over the bowl. "How can you just _say that_?" the other boy gasped in hushed tones. "I _gave_ him a disease! The _Cavusa Vita _did more than just take his vitals; it _weakened_ them. I _did_ kill him!"

"You're _overreacting_," Tom returned coldly. "Come out of there; we're wasting massive amounts of time. If you like, I'll do some research, and develop a spell to undo what you did, then we can move on, all right, but there is _always a solution_. Enough wasting time dwelling on the idea of the problem!"

Neville's frightened and hysterical gasps ceased too suddenly. Tom stared with puzzlement at the wooden stall door. A still moment passed before he heard Neville shift again. The hinges on the wood creaked as the stall door opened and Neville stood on the other side, his expression alarmingly resolute. "You're right, Tom. 'There's always a solution"," he finally replied reflectively. "but _I_ did this so I'm going to have to be the one to find out how to undo it."

Tom raised his eyebrows in high surprise. Neville taking initiative? It all sounded mildly entertaining. _However_, he thought, fingering at the silver thread about his wrist, _there are other things I feel more called to be attentive to before I move on_. "Do as you like," he said.

* * *

Tom had two things he intended to do in the owlery. He first intended to owl the bartender of the Leaky Cauldron, then to owl Malfoy's father himself. He had decided quite poignantly that in order to gain information about this silent war-- which had seemed to come to a head there between Neville and Draco—of blood that was pure and that which was "filthy." What he did not intend, upon setting off for the owlery that evening, was to encounter Ginevra, settled in the crook of a low rafter. 

"You're everywhere where I don't need you, but nowhere where I've decided to look," he remarked offhandedly as he passed underneath her perch.

He heard her shift as he reached for an owl at which he turned back to look at her. He was unpleasantly surprised to see her rub vigorously at her eyes, muffled sniffs rising from her little form. He had little patience for tears; little patience for her in general if she was really like that. He set about to ignoring her.

The letter would have to flatter, but avoid clarifying his true intent. He knew so little about Malfoy's father that this in itself seemed a bit daunting. Unearthing his quill and parchment from his book bag, Tom perched near the back owl exit.

_**Mr. Malfoy,**_

_**I do apologise for bothering you at this time, but I cannot help but feel you may be the most dependable source when it comes to this**_

_**matter. Your son has kindly contacted me with advice that I do indeed value, but I feel that the issue leaves much to be desired. I once again appeal to your evident and genuine concern for the school's wellbeing with request to speak to you in person if I may. I thank you most humbly for your time and I will admit that I'm aware of the liberty I've taken in contacting you. Forgive me for this small infringement on ceremony.**_

_**Sincere gratitude,**_

_**Tom…**_

Tom lifted his quill from the page. He _did_ enjoy writing out letters, especially letters of appeal and/or debate. He could recall with some satisfaction some especially eloquent messages he had sent to newspaper columns in his past times under pseudonyms. After all, it was the pseudonym that concealed the fact that he had no surname. Now, his own name seemed almost inadequate next to the fine strokes of calligraphy scrawled across the page

The shift of feet near him swept all these self-deprecating thoughts from Tom's mind as he sat up and surveyed Ginevra, who now stood nearby. It appeared, as he remained engrossed in his writings, she had intention of sneaking out undetected by the distressed expression on her face right then.

They looked at each other for a horribly still moment.

Intending to let her move on in her excursion, Tom turned back to look at his words. Could there be anything else he could say to ensure Mr. Malfoy's response? 

"The one who did it…do you know who it is?"

His head snapped up. "Do I…? What gave you the idea that I would know?"

She was now leaning against the sill, tucking her hair behind her ear, blissfully unaware of the tear streaks on her cheeks. "Before the attack…"She hesitated there. "…you said you knew what went on in _your_ school. I was just wondering if you knew who might have-have wanted to hurt Mrs. Norris."

He scowled at her. "Wanting to play detective, are you?" he sneered carefully before tentatively scribbling out the "Tom" at the bottom of the page. He thought a moment then looked up at her again. "Where were _you_ Hallowe'en night?"

Ginevra paled. "I-I was in the Great Hall with everyone else."

"You were _not_," he returned bluntly, executing a withering look in her direction. He paused again and then re-wrote his name on the bottom of the page. "Neville and I checked. You were off on one of your wanderings or perhaps _crying_ in a corner like you were a moment ago…"

There was an angry pause from her side. "Y-you _know_, there's not really anything wrong with having a good cry," she retorted in a would-be strong tone.

Tom scoffed, but didn't look up. "Just as there's not really anything wrong with lying about and having a good bleed when someone strikes you."

"It's not the same, though!"

"It's the _very_ same." He heard silence as she fell quiet. Looking up, he saw her visibly upset as her eyes acquired the sheen of tears he had become accustomed to.

Expecting her to leave gave him the ease with which he perused his letter once more, checking the words, ensuring that they said everything, but revealed nothing. He looked up, though, when she perched on the ledge near him, shifting a particularly irate owl aside. "Don't you cry or bleed?" she asked with some veiled disbelief.

Tom stood, reaching for that same owl as he rolled the parchment into a cylinder and attached it to the owl's offered leg. "If I'm cut, I would bleed, but I don't cry."

"All boys say that. My older brother Bill used to say that, but I've seen him cry."

He sighed. "You'll not see me cry. Besides, the world is too competitive and quick now for anyone to waste so much time with tears. What do they do for you?" He let the owl fly out the window, then looked back at her. 

Ginevra raised her knees to rest on the ledge before her as she looked at him thoughtfully. "Neville says you can teach anyone anything…would you be able to teach me how not to cry?"

His eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Fred and George keep teasing me…saying I'm going to attract the Heir just because I'm little and silly enough to be mistaken for a Muggle; everyone in my year talks about me like I'm a stupid baby; and y-you say I won't make it this year." Her voice shook and she rested her chin on her knees, her hair falling forward. "I _want_ to make it, but things are weird this year and I feel ill _all the time_."

Tom just stared at her. "I'm sorry…what does this have to do with me?"

"I don't want to be thought of that way! All my brothers leave the school with some kind of legacy, and I'm…and I'm _nothing_!"

Some of the owls, having been previously sleeping, began to squawk and screech at Ginevra's outburst which resulted in a moment of deafening noise. It gave him some time to think, however. Thereby when the noise subsided, he found himself quite able to smile despite the strange nature of the conversation. "What do you think I would have to do to you before people look at you differently?"

She seemed once more insecure at his smiling look. "I don't know. I asked Ron about Neville and he says that when the school year started last term, Neville was thought to be a bit of a wet sponge. Then he started spending time with you and…"

"This is strange, Ginevra," he replied. "We are not in the same year; how do you expect me to guide you through your lessons?"

She sat upright. "I don't mind! I'll work hard and study both in and out of lessons. I'll just need your help some of the time."

He folded his arms. "You're horribly conceited. From Neville, I receive his unconditional aid and intellectual company, but what on earth am I to expect from you?" Tom was gratified to see her pause with a stricken expression on her face. It made him feel a little less contrary. "Tell you what, Ginevra. You think about your priorities and what you'd be willing to do for this and whether you really think it's worth it, and then you may of course approach me. Right now, I don't really have the _time_ to deal with you or your necessary tears."

Her nod was vacant of any expression but outright dejection. Tom was of the opinion that he couldn't care less.

* * *

After completing all his schoolwork and ensuring that Neville had done his, Tom had finally found some quiet time to retreat to the library. It was a Friday evening and the balls of light hanging above the bookshelves and tables buzzed with straining brightness. 

He sat in his favourite spot, books laid across the table as his fingers ran lightly, almost with a tentative frustration, over the silver thread around his wrist. In Tom's opinion, he could have easily spent time reading up on the myths of Hogwarts, but he felt the thing that demanded his attention right at the moment was that thing. It had not caused any change in his magic; it hadn't hindered him in any way, but the plain fact of it was that the thing was frustrating him. It was this thing that reminded him that Dumbledore had somehow succeeded in almost psychologically filling him with fear. He felt guarded every time he so much as decided to take an action, not knowing when he'd be called into the old man's office again.

He was tired. Leaning his head forward, he rested in head in his hand, feeling for a moment a little daunted. He was alone, after all, and he had a little time…

"Erm…hey."

Irritation shooting up his spine, Tom looked up, lowering his hand. Potter was standing right above him, looking horribly like he had noticed Tom's unexpected foray into a half-depression. Tom sat up and frowned at him, knowing it would be best to adopt indifference so as to make it appear normal for him to sit like that sometimes. "Yes?"

Potter took a seat in something that resembled reverent silence as Tom stared at him. "I was looking for you," he said quietly.

"Oh," Tom returned.

The boy-hero seemed to gather a semblance of sensibility as he set his bag on the table and faced Tom quite fully. "You probably don't want to talk about it, but…did Dumbledore say anything to you about the Heir of Slytherin?"

He had not promised to be entirely truthful about the whole thing, but he knew that he had wanted to know just what Potter thought about the situation. It might be a relief to know someone else was moving for the same result as you were and that that same person was perfectly willing to take your side on many issues. He decided to tell the truth. "He thinks I did it."

"What!"

Tom looked around for Madame Pince. The idiot was going to have her coming over to their side of the library. Potter was too noisy for them to have a private conversation in a place like the library. Giving an exasperated sigh, he rose. "Come on; we can't talk here."

It was still early and they were not expected to be in the Common Room for another hour or so. As they made their way down the hallway, Tom muttered, "Here, I'll explain as we walk."

Potter nodded. 

"First of all, there's rumour that a certain Heir of Slytherin has come to cleanse the school. I did some reading, and –"

"You weren't in History of Magic last Wednesday. Professor Binns explained the whole story; the four founders and their houses as well as the disagreement between Gryffindor and Slytherin. He doesn't like Muggleborns-"

"_Yes_, I know. I _read_ about it. What I feel needs to be discovered at this point is whether it's even a student or whether one of the teachers…"

"It's a student," Potter affirmed. "All the teachers were in the Great Hall that night."

"How do you _know_?"

He shrugged. "Well, Snape's the Slytherin head so…"

Tom shot him a withering look. "You're not serious…"

"Look, none of the other teachers would attack students; I think it's reasonable to assume on those grounds, don't you think?"

Tom thought on this a moment. "You may be right on one level, but I think your criterion is a bit skewed. Is it _really_ Slytherin's heir or is it someone posing as him?"

Potter paused in his steps, adjusting his spectacles. "I never thought of that…"

"Well, it's fair to assume…"

"How do you reckon, though?"

"I can't 'reckon' anything unless he attacks again. The one attack against the caretaker's cat doesn't say much."

"Right…erm…well, I think it might be Malfoy."

"Malfoy?"

"Well, he hates Muggleborns and Muggles. And he uses the word, 'Mudblood' and-"

"It isn't him."

"What?"

Tom was beginning to think that dealing with Potter on this may only benefit the other boy, but certainly not himself. "I've spoken to Malfoy. He's only somewhat aware of what's going on, but he's not the one planning to do it. And the boy's not an actor so I'd know if he was telling the truth."

"You already spoke to him!" Potter exclaimed.

"Well, yes. He was the first one I spoke to since he did make himself look guilty. It wasn't as if I was going to wait around for anything, was I?"

As they began to descend the northern stairs, Potter muttered, "I guess…"

"We're generally at square one, here…"Tom confirmed quietly.

They both shared a speculative silence, only broken when the boy-hero stopped walking and looked around.

"What?" Tom queried.

He leaned forward tentatively. "I'm wondering why Dumbledore thinks it's you. He's usually not wrong about things."

Affronted, Tom glared. "Well, he's certainly _wrong_ about this."

The boy-hero waved this aside. "That's not what I meant. I just want to know what would make him think it was you as opposed to me. I was there that night too."

"You're his favourite, I believe," Tom replied insipidly.

"No! I'm not his favourite. I _had_ an excuse for being out of the Great Hall."

Tom paused. "And what was that?"

Harry Potter launched into a strange tale about the Gryffindor ghost, being headless, and the celebration of death. Tom found it all quite disquieting. "Ah," he said.

"But what about you?"

Tom thought for a minute. "I think what bothers me most about this is that when I went up to Dumbledore's office, he didn't ask me a _thing_ about the event. He asked me strange, speculative questions like whether I could imagine any necessary changes, whether I felt the school was flawed."

"He probably wanted to know whether or not you wanted to be rid of Muggleborn students."

"Irrelevant! _I'm_ Muggleborn."

There was another pause and Tom wondered for a moment why that statement bothered him so much. He glanced at Potter who was wearing an expression relating precisely what Tom himself was feeling.

"Remember last summer?" Potter asked carefully.

"Vividly," Tom replied coldly.

"I mean, when we were talking about your parents."

He made a sound of acknowledgement.

"I wonder if you _are_ Muggleborn…I mean, you and I are so much the same…maybe your mum and dad were a witch and wizard too. Maybe…Dumbledore knows who they were."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "_Potter_, are you trying to imply something?"

He shrugged. "I don't want to offend you or anything. I've just been thinking about it for awhile now; I thought maybe it'd be something you'd be thinking about too. That's why I came looking for you; it all fit in a way and I was worried for a minute…that…"

"That _I_ was the Heir?"

"I don't think that anymore," Potter amended quickly. "It was just a thought! I'm sorry; I don't mean you would want to do that kind of thing-- I don't know…ignore what I said."

Another silence passed between them, Tom leaned against the stone wall behind him, just thinking about Potter's words, thinking about them-liking them and hating them all at once. 

"And I promised that I wouldn't suspect you just like you promised the same, right?" the other boy queried softly.

He glanced at him, taking in the often deplorable sight of him. Right now, it didn't matter all that much. A sense of melancholy had descended on Tom in a way, and he wasn't happy about being in Potter's presence as it happened. "Do you think I would do it, if I was the Heir?" he asked quietly, his voice steady and his eyes unblinking.

Potter blinked at him, clearly confused. "Well, no; I wouldn't _ever_ expect it of you," he returned a tad solemnly.

Tom scoffed bluntly. "You're an idiot then. If I was the heir, I _would_ do it. If for a moment I thought that my ancestor required something of me, to perform and earn a powerful and world-changing legacy that spans back generation before generation, then yes, I would do my duty!"

"What?" Potter whispered. "Something like this? No you _wouldn't_. You're not like that."

Now Tom was angry. "How can you be so naïve? How can you embrace such an idealist point of view about me? You hardly know me!"

Potter's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "I'm not an idiot and I'm _not_ naïve! I spend a lot of time talking to you enough to know that you can't be the heir!"he shouted.

"All the same, speaking to someone on one level doesn't disprove their actions on another!" Tom shouted back.

"As if you know! What proof do you have that _I'm_ not the Heir?"

"You couldn't manage it!"

"Nor could you!"

"I could!"

Potter's hand flattened on Tom shoulders as he shoved him roughly back into the stone. The back of Tom's head hit the brick and thousands of black sparks flew before his eyes. He blinked and Potter's countenance seemed to glow with rage as the other boy stepped slowly back. "Well, _are_ you the heir?" he demanded coldly.

"No!" Tom spat through the pain, reaching up to rub the back of his head. As soon as he had his wits about him again, he was going to hex the living gall out of the stupid hero.

"Then why are we even shouting about this?"

Tom stepped away from the wall to avoid the consequence of Potter's inability to control his physical instincts. He hated to demean himself by being the one to say, 'you started it," but Potter was the one who was initially at fault here. Tom had just wanted to make it quite clear that if he _had_ been the Heir, he would have gladly executed the entire thing well _and_ he would not have been caught. 

Finally Potter sighed. "So what should we do?"

"Like I said, we can only wait for there to be another attack before we can decide on anything. I'm doing some research of my own, and…and I'll inform you if I find anything."

At this Potter offered him a tentative smile. "Right," he said smilingly. "And I'll let you know if I find anything."

Tom chose to shrug; he was lacking of a reply as he was trying to figure out why he felt much better about the whole issue. 

"Oh! I have to go meet Ron and Hermione!" Potter exclaimed, clapping his hand to his forehead. "Er…are you…going to be watching the match tomorrow?"

Tom's mouth curled. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Much to Tom's surprise, Potter laughed. "Yeah," he said. "You never seemed interested in Quidditch much…"

Tom didn't reply. He preferred for Potter to experience this unbelievably trivial situation on his own. 

* * *

It was stupid, really. Quidditch. The _entire_ premise of it. Tom considered all sporting events to be quite the same. _Bread and circuses_, he would think sometimes when he had watched the other boys at school play their football. A way to keep entertained, but certainly not a lifestyle to adopt and certainly not something to follow after like some mindless idiot. 

However that Saturday morning, Tom sat in the Great Hall as the deafening noise of chatter rang about him. According to what Neville was chatting with Finnegan about, it would be Gryffindor versus Slytherin and perhaps an important game. Apparently Draco had bought his way onto the team by purchasing the fastest brooms for the lot, and this was a source of terminal angst for the Gryffindors. Tom sipped his tea quietly and thoughtfully as the havoc around him reached an insensible amount.

"We should go and get seats, Tom," Neville murmured to him.

He threw a scathing glance at the other boy. 

"Aren't you coming?" Neville queried incredulously.

It was in a listless manner that Tom downed his tea and stood. "Let's go," he replied in a grim and irritable tone. 

_Anyway, it's all educational, isn't it?_ He thought to himself. _Perhaps the sport may enlighten me on the mechanics of flying._ Tom barely agreed with himself as he thought this, but he knew he hadn't much else to do today or any day until he received his reply from Mr. Malfoy. It would be amusing, and even if it wasn't, he could easily return to the castle. 

The sky was leaden. The landscape seemed to go grey along with it as the winds picked up from the east and the coming winter ice tinged the air. Tom already disliked the prospect, but he led the way to the stands anyway. As he sat between Neville and another Gryffindor, he knew it must be curiosity that drove him to this level of discomfort. 

Despite the empty and gloomy grey bordering the landscape, it was the grass alone below the stands that kept its vivid green. Tom, for a short moment, could almost understand the hype as fluttering swathes of emerald and scarlet poured onto the pitch amid cheers, hoots, and screams of approval from the people around Tom. It was all so interesting to watch when he looked at it from the perspective of aesthetics. The scarves of emerald breeched away from the scarlet and soon the strange shapes had faces as Tom caught sight of Draco's pallor. If the brat had a heart sickness, then what was he doing playing Quidditch?

As the rush of noise in the stands rose to a spectacular point, Tom had a strange and unexpected moment of understanding. The crowd's cheers, the idea of fame coming so soon in a person's life right there in the school: it was all intoxicating. Even Tom, sitting there watching as the masses went mad for these people who were doing nothing more than throwing a selection of spheres through the air as they glided about on cleaning utensils….knew that this was thrilling, knew that somehow this was a relief from what was inevitably pedestrian about the Wizarding World. 

"I've always loved watching that kid fly," said a voice near Tom's left shoulder. He turned. Some older Gryffindor boy was staring with a form of awe at the pitch. Tom discreetly followed his gaze. 

Potter swept the wind with his speed as he rose up high-- higher than the rest of the team-- his Quidditch robes a fiery wave behind him Tom had to admit, the very act of flying had to be awe-inspiring, but what was it about Potter's flying that would bring all these older students there with the confidence that they had a chance of winning against a team of faster brooms. 

Then the match began.

It took him perhaps eleven minutes, but he was soon somewhat familiar with the nature of the game. The only thing he couldn't place was the significance of Potter flying loop de loops about the pitch being chased by the same particular dark ball. He leaned over to Neville. "What does the team stand to gain with one player being chased by _that_ ball."

Neville glanced at him in confusion. "What?"

Tom pointed exasperatedly at Potter who was now zooming off to the other end of the pitch with the malicious ball on his tail. 

"Huh!" Neville said. "That's weird."

"Just what is he supposed to be doing?"

The referee's whistle rang out and the match was paused in an instant. Neville was leaning over the seat before him trying to see what was up. Tom sat back in his seat, asking himself again what he was doing out there in the first place. So far barely anything had happened.

There was a lengthy intermission and the people around him were starting to shift and talk loudly. It started to drizzle and Tom had only just considered getting up and going inside where it was warm when the whistle was blown again and Potter swept up into the clouds again. There was a certain determined force emanating from the sky now and Tom, quite easily remembering last summer and the way that Potter's mood seemed to force itself upon the weather, knew that something was definitely not right. 

Tom grabbed Neville's arm. "What is Potter supposed to be doing in this game."

"He's the seeker," Neville muttered at him, eyes still fixed on the clouds above. "He's supposed to catch the little golden ball to win the match."

Tom's eyes narrowed as Potter's form rose above them and sped abruptly right to be followed by the ball that just wouldn't leave him alone. "Can those things kill?" Tom inquired softly.

Neville gave a half-shrug. "Well, they're not meant to kill you. But if you get in the way of a Bludger, it might break a bone or something."

It soon became difficult to see through the rain, and the cold rattled in through the eaves of the stands. Tom was distracted momentarily by a sudden blast of rain blowing sideways and hitting the first three rows of students with piles of water. Tom stood and jumped back about an inch. A younger Gryffindor nearly crashed into his knees, and it was all Tom could do to avoid falling backward. Having applied a significant scowl upon the offending First Year, Tom looked back up at the sky.

Just in time to see the Bludger ram straight into Potter's side…

He heard several girls below him scream and a collective gasp shuddered through the crowd as Potter took an abrupt flight in the direction of the still Malfoy. He swept up once more, then went still like a doll having been thrown roughly across the sky. 

It was a spectacular fall, and Tom could only watch with some morbid disbelief as the thud echoed about the pitch.

* * *

The confusion that had ensued after Potter's fall had resulted in Tom's being sopping wet and Neville hollering over the crowd to get out of the way as they struggled through the masses to move out of the stands. 

When they made it back to the castle, Neville followed Tom up to the dormitory. 

"Quidditch," Tom scoffed ominously. "They must realise how dangerous it is. Life-threatening, even! Of what use does it do the students academically? Of what use is it to people wanting to achieve anything in this world. And look, the very saviour of the entire Wizarding World is indisposed because he's given into the masses. It's really ridiculous!"

Neville gave a fervent nod as he turned to his trunk.

"Who knows what the possibilities are? I'd understand if it was something to increase one's magical propensity or strength, but does _nothing_! For _fame_," Tom spat, now pacing. "There are better ways of achieving it!"

"Do you think Potter does it for the fame?" Neville queried lightly.

Tom paused, and his mind instantly thought back to the way Potter was flying. "No," he replied quietly. "He _has_ talent; this is just an example of the world's desire for blokes like him to squander such things."

"Yeah…" the other boy sighed. "You're right, Tom. Quidditch doesn't do much, does it?"

"It doesn't." Tom affirmed stolidly.

They sat in silence as Neville caught up with his readings and Tom sat on his bed, brooding mainly. The whole episode had bothered him, he had to admit, but as the evening wore on, he couldn't identify with the troubling feeling in his gut. He finally decided that when Potter finished having his arm mended, then he would berate the other boy, and make him aware of the futility of the fame he seemed to grasp in Quidditch. Tom just didn't think it was a sensible thing to squander a speciality on something so temporal. 

The evening passed fairly quickly and Thomas and Finnegan had shown up, then finally when Weasley turned up, Tom began to wonder what had happened. He was quite sure that it usually took only moments for a Magical Healer to mend bones. After lights out, though, he heard Weasley muttering angrily to Finnegan.

"Lockhart's a dolt if I ever met one! Who vanishes bones instead of mends them? And Harry has to stay there the night. I don't see why he was hired."

There was another two hours or so before they were all asleep at which Tom rose from bed and stole away quietly.

* * *

Tom was surprised that the Infirmary wasn't locked. He had been expecting to have to open it magically. Tucking away his wand, Tom peeked in and scanned the room. Different screens stood surrounding different beds, and the light from the moon cast shadows through the white sheet of the screens. The third bed from the end held the unmistakeable form of the boy-hero. Looking to make sure the school healer wasn't anywhere near, Tom moved in.

He had a very strange feeling that someone besides Potter was in the room as well, but he couldn't quite identify this strange and unexpected bout into paranoia. His steps were slow and cautious anyway as he made his way over to Potter's sleeping place. 

It appeared that Potter was a dreamer; a restless dreamer on top of that. He twisted and turned as his temples grew wet with sweat. There was a long moment before Tom realised that Potter might be in pain. The other boy was moving restlessly as he clutched his arm, which was undergoing a very strange and alarming process. Tom leaned forward as he saw to wrist bones jut out and Potter let out a particularly low groan. Forgetting himself, Tom took a chair and sought to witness this amazing foray into bone-growth. He wondered what type of magical herbs or specific fungi could be combined to make this happen. Tom ran through his head the properties of different plants that might contain calcium. It was endlessly fascinating to wonder how the muscular tendons in the crook of his arm held up when it was flat like that or did that vanish too?

Tom reached out to poke lightly at that part of the other boy's arm. It _was_ flat. _How incredible, _Tom thought, leaning forward. As the knuckles in his right index finger rose up out of seemingly nowhere, Tom pressed down on it and watched the rest of them grow with disbelief. 

"Er…"

Practically jumping up and dropping Potter's hand, Tom's chair scraped back as the other boy sat up a little. 

They stared at one another for a miniscule minute.

Pulling himself together, Tom sat down again and folded his arms. "Was…was it a potion they gave you to grow the bones back?"

He blinked, seemingly nonplussed about the situation. "Er..oh..erm, yeah. I-it was a potion."

Tom nodded. "It hurts, doesn't it?"

Potter lifted his arm and looked at it irritably. "It's like these weird stabbing pains; little knives in my arm."

Tom shrugged not a little listlessly. "The pain is necessary. It'll teach you not to cater so much to something to useless."

"What?" Potter exclaimed with a bit of a laugh.

"I saw the match," he replied.

Potter's face brightened. "Yeah. I saw you in the stands. I thought you said you didn't have any reason to be at the match."

Shrugging was an awful habit and Tom didn't think it became him much; he decided to stop doing so. He smiled a little instead. "I didn't have any reason not to be either. I suppose you're good, but it's a talent that couldn't possibly follow you outside the sport."

It seemed Potter bristled. "I _like_ flying," he returned coldly.

Tom didn't reply. He stood and moved to the nearby window to look out at the grounds which were distant over the lower roofs of the castle. Seeing nothing of interest out there, he turned back to Potter. "Getting yourself killed isn't a very clever way to clear up this mess."

"Getting myself killed?"

"Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "We're trying to get rid of the Slytherin Heir business and you're out there risking your neck for an empty school-based prize."

Potter stared back at him, long and hard, and Tom returned the glare unabashedly. He was surprised when the other boy sighed and smiled a bit. "Thanks for the advice, then," he muttered.

"Right," was all Tom could think of to say. He kept himself busy playing with the wrappings of some leftover sweets on the table at the end of the bed. 

"You want one? Fred and George left me some when they visited this evening."

"I don't really prefer sweets," he began.

"Well, pass me one of them. The pain in my arm's killing me."

Tom tossed him a Chocolate Frog. He was beginning to wonder what he was still doing there. He'd said what he had wanted to say and he was feeling better. Sighing, he grabbed one of the lollipops, unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth.

Potter laughed. "You didn't _have_ to take one if you didn't want to."

Tom pulled the lollipop out. "Don't be stupid, Potter," he scoffed.

There was a friendly stillness that came upon them as Potter popped his Chocolate Frog into his mouth and Tom sucked thoughtfully on the lime lollipop. There was moment before he realised that Potter was blinking at him in an odd manner.

He glared. "Are you aware that you have a tendency to stare?"

Potter flushed. "Oh! Sorry, I was just…erm…you know, Ron and Hermione still think its Malfoy. They even think he's the one who tampered with that Bludger."

"A Bludger's not supposed to act like that?"

"No. Usually Bludgers hit any player that's close enough."

"Ah…" It was an interesting development. Someone was aware of Potter's interest in the mystery and was determined to be rid of him. This also meant that Tom had to be especially careful from now on about his own investigation. "It means we can expect another attack soon enough. The type of victim will tell us a little about the attacker, though."

"Yeah," Potter agreed. "I just don't like the idea of waiting for someone to be petrified before we do anything more."

"Ugh. There are always things that must happen to contribute to the bigger results. Don't start getting attached to the idea of social guilt."

Potter nodded and they fell into a sort of mutual silence.

"Well," Tom began. "I have to go."

"Oh," he said by way of response. "Well, thanks for…you know, visiting." He coughed. "It was a nice distraction from the pain."

Tom smiled at Potter, something he hadn't done since last summer. "Don't think it'll keep happening if you keep ending up in here, you idiot."

Potter's muffled laughter followed him as he exited the infirmary.

* * *

When he turned off that corridor and began descending the stairs to the entrance hall, he heard the voice immediately.

"_What small morsel wanders near me? I hunger! Come closer and I'll rip, tear, kill…"_

Tom froze, listening. Was the voice talking to him or something else? He moved back to the corridor leading near the kitchens, but it was just as he rounded into another corridor that an icy feeling lanced across his wrist and into his blood. Before he could exclaim at the pain, he felt the thread about his wrist tighten and some force pulled his arm back and his wrist was slammed against the wall. Watching with horror and disbelief, Tom saw the thread break apart and each end dug straight into the brick of the wall. 

Tom was trapped, chained by a tiny thread to a brick wall. 

Not a moment passed before Dumbledore loomed out of the shadows. "Ah, so it works wonderfully, I see. I must admit that this small invention of mine has come in quite useful, wouldn't you agree?"

Tom reached up to pull at the thread. He had to admit that his outrage outweighed his startlement. "Why?" was all he could ground out between his clenched teeth. 

Dumbledore's smile faded. He appeared only stern and disappointed. "I'm afraid, Tom. There's been another attack. Perhaps if you'd been in bed tonight, the _Ligatio_ wouldn't have taken affect. However, with present circumstances…the past is certainly wishing to repeat itself. I shall, however, not concede to let it end the same way."

As rage flew up into his limbs and consumed every part of him, Tom knew there was something about him that Dumbledore knew and wasn't letting on.


	9. Chapter Eight

**A/N- To start off with, I'd like to apologise on behalf of Ginevra Weasley. She's the very reason this chapter took so long (a whole month!) and most of the reason I'm still hitting my head against my computer desk, praying to the goddess of characterisation that I did something right. Plainly speaking, she's a character I really actually like, I just find her as inexplicable as Tom finds her most times. That goes without saying, that the end result is exactly how I mean for her to be. There will be no changes. This is my take on the Weasley darling. That having been said, I want to personally thank all the reviewers, favouriters, story-alert...ers, and even those who email me to say that they hope I haven't given this up. It is hard work, but it's most certainly not worth throwing away.**

**Disclaimer-If Harry Potter were mine, Ginevra would have been easier on the fan-authors, dammit!**

-**Time Or Manner**-

Chapter 8

"Here we are again, I believe," Dumbledore sighed in Tom's general direction as he took a seat. It had been an hour since the old headmaster had traced him to that corridor as he stood chained by a mere thread to the wall. Tom had learned quite quickly that not only did the strange thread -referred to as the _Ligatio-_ have the power to imprison him in a moment of grave emergency, but it could also lead him to do as the Headmaster commanded. With Dumbledore's sudden command, Tom felt the icy pain lance through his arm before he felt himself swept quite quickly down the corridors led quite excruciatingly by the tiny, iron-like thread.

Once he had reached the Headmaster's office, his body involuntarily forced itself into the chair before the desk at which the thread broke its hold and wrapped quickly about the chair's arm, preventing Tom's chances of escape as Dumbledore went to assist the other teachers in taking the victim to the Infirmary.

So of course, it was perfectly understandable why, an hour later, Tom was gazing with stony disgust at the older man as Dumbledore took a seat casually across from him. Tom no longer saw the necessity to feign any type of respect for the man.

Dumbledore let out a long-suffering sigh; it was a very martyred sigh. "Another attack, it seems. We definitely must get to the bottom of this, mustn't we?"

Tom's lips pursed for a short moment. Then finally he muttered, "We?"

The headmaster's folded his arms on top of his desk. "Yes, Tom, 'we'. I thought that by executing my strategy in this situation, we might be able to alter the disposition of the subject concerned. It appears that it can't be helped, can it? We can admit that those concerned remain adamant in their actions."

His eyes narrowed, and Tom shifted in his seat. He was quite tired of these word games. "I am _assuming_ that you are talking about me, sir. I am also assuming that you're unaware that I myself am taking steps to disable the attacker. Another thing I can assume is that you are making assumptions too, _sir_. I haven't a clue as to who the unfortunate victim was and _besides_…Harry Potter can attest that I was with _him._"

"Ah, Tom; yes, this is all very clear. However, you should know that these exchanges we share now have grown past the point where your alibis must be attested for. In this world, they are not difficult to come by—an alibi, that is. "

There was wild moment where a lance of fear pierced Tom's chest, thinking that Dumbledore may very well sentence him or even _expel_ him without the opportunity for him to clear his name. Dumbledore broke the silence, however.

"And yet, I cannot take much action as of now unless I _do_ catch you in the act."

Tom swallowed, relief sweeping through him. What had this horrible man reduced him to? "Well, you won't catch me at anything, as I am innocent," he returned tightly.

Dumbledore gave a surprising smile. "Yes, I did surmise you would say just _that_. You see, Tom, I feel in this instance there is a strong possibility we might both emerge the victor. I flatter myself in saying that I am an understanding headmaster. In avoiding capture, your best strategy would be to cease activity altogether and in that ceasing, the attacks shall cease as well. Compromise, do you see?"

Tom couldn't reply.

"And of course, I know I can expect you to keep silent. Forgive me, for I know I'm correct when I assume that you have certain tenacities for secrecy."

Tom could only think it best to remain silent when in truth he had been struck speechless.

Dumbledore's smile was still polite and warm. "That will be all, Tom."

* * *

"And then what happened?" Neville whispered to him the following day over breakfast.

"I left," Tom returned shortly, thoroughly nettled and finding himself unable eat anything. "I refuse to allow it to slow me in anyway, Neville. I intend to show the Headmaster how he wastes his time."

Neville nodded vigorously. "You _will_," he breathed solemnly, leaning back in his chair. "We only need to find out who's really doing it."

Ginevra took a seat opposite them. "Good morning," she said pointedly.

"Morning," Neville returned casually, now pouring out a cup of tea. "Don't you have anywhere else to sit?"

Ginevra reddened, and Tom shot Neville an appreciative smile.

"Well, I didn't sit here for you, did I?" she retorted a bit too late, but the statement still made the corners of Neville's mouth turn down. She shifted in her seat so that she was solely facing Tom, her pale little face set with a fixedly determined expression. "I need to talk to you."

"Do you?" Tom sighed, pushing his plate of toast away. He scanned the table for Potter and his friends. If he had been inside the infirmary the night before, then he should already know about last night's attack.

She opened her mouth to continue, but a large eagle owl swept in through the window and landed near Tom's discarded plate of toast. With a regal eye fixed on Tom, it dropped the sealed envelope in its beak.

Opening the envelope with his butter knife, Tom frowned at the scarlet M in the seal. _A reply!_ Ignoring Neville and Ginevra's shifts of interest, he stared down at the elegant print on the crème page.

**_ Tom,_**

**_First Word: I am now aware of your concern. Have chosen to disregard it. Arranged to ensure there are no more letters like this. A thousand apologies. Time is scarce for anonymous informants. And do not reply to this letter. A boy of your kind? Place for you in my schedule is absent. Approach no one about this. My regrets are in this message. Son has been instructed not to deal with you. He will obey me. Will has been impressed upon him. Inform no one of our exchange. You. In time you will understand the foolishness you've committed. Words fail me. Only time I've encountered such audacity from an orphan. You. May, of course, be your background. Understand that you are in a state of sound disgrace._**

**_-L. M._**

The print was very fine, and exceedingly like that of an aristocrat, but the wording was awful – almost disrespectful in its short-hand. It didn't make sense. Insults, rejections, and apologies all in one paragraph. Then the recurring word, "**You**" stood out on the page in incomprehensive fragments. There was something familiar about the way it all sounded jumbled together interrupted frankly with periods, but Tom couldn't figure out just what that might be.

Despite the confusion, a crushing disappointment had entered Tom's veins as he folded the letter. Did this mean that the Malfoys _were_ involved somehow? Did it mean that Draco was, indeed, a capable liar? Ah, it was almost embarrassing to think on it; to think on the fact that he had been fooled.

Then he thought about it again. It made him think the word: _Acrostic._ And he quickly opened the letter again, scanning the words. _First Word_, he thought, muttering to himself. "First word…first…first…first word…"

He was only vaguely aware of Neville and Ginevra staring at him. He stood and walked from the Great Hall, tracing the words on the page. "'You' is not a sentence," he affirmed to himself quietly as he passed the doorway leading into the Entrance Hall. A rising feeling of realisation came upon him just then and with it a feeling of elation. "_Of course_," he breathed, scanning the letter once more.

He practically ran to the Slytherin dungeons.

* * *

It was only Sunday morning, so he didn't expect to see Draco out anytime soon, but he knew that if he didn't plant himself there, he would miss him and have to wait until Monday which would compromise his first impression. He needed to do this in the same hour if possible so as to retain his state of respect.

He was fortunate. At around eleven Draco emerged, flanked as usual by his two cronies. Tom, who was leaned against the wall near the end of the corridor -- the letter crushed in his hand -- straightened and Draco saw the movement. The little brat's mouth curled into a sneer as he began to walk toward Tom.

Tom remained impassive, gazing quite serenely back.

"My _father_ told me that if you were to even try and approach me, I could probably hex you and get away with it. He's on the school board, you know?" the other boy declaimed pompously. "If you even _had_ parents, they wouldn't be able to do a thing, riff-raff like them."

There Draco stepped back and smirked at Tom, his grey eyes glittering, enjoying his sudden immunity. Tom's mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He was waiting.

"Won't the rest of the Gryffindors be surprised to find you alone in the Forbidden Forest, hexed to nothing—ha ha! I could have you vanish around midnight tonight, couldn't I?"

It was Tom's turn to smirk. He hardly had to say anything. He felt the spell on the inside of his lips as a wicked blue light flashed out of him and ricocheted off the damp stone wall near them. It was all right, though; he hadn't been aiming and Malfoy's smirk had fallen away replaced by a distinctly repentant look. Crabbe and Goyle had already begun stepping back cautiously, but Draco only bit his lips and returned Tom's hard stare. He knew all immunity had passed. Wordlessly, he slinked away.

* * *

Sunday took forever to end. Tom edited Neville's Charms homework, taking very little pleasure in sentencing the other boy to another hour of work for forgetting to include a reference from three sources not two. He dismissed Ginevra a second time and her little form could be seen on the other side of the Common Room, her sleeve against her cheek as she wrote in that little diary of hers silently. He was impatient mostly, and even that sight gave him little reprieve. He didn't even have the opportunity to speak with Potter, who was missing most of the day, but absent from the infirmary.

He pretended to go to sleep early and lay restlessly under his covers, waiting as one by one the other boys in the dormitory got ready for bed; impatiently checking his watch by the light of the window.

Then it was a quarter to midnight.

Tom threw off his covers, and began to dress quickly.

Getting outside wasn't as difficult as Tom thought it might be. He had been prepared to meet either Filch or even Dumbledore on his quest to reach his destination, but he happened upon neither and quite easily, he slipped through a crack in the door.

His goal was the Forbidden Forest, though he was unsure what part. He found quite quickly that he needn't have worried for right behind the groundskeeper's hut there stood a house-elf, quite obviously waiting for him. He moved as quickly as he could across the expanse of grass that appeared black in the absence of moonlight.

"Master says boy should come with Dobby," the little creature stated quite matter-of-factly as Tom came closer. Tom quite expected to be urged to follow the elf through the unpleasant dark, but just as he stepped forward, the little animal grasped his arm and a sickening revulsion crossed his insides before he felt yanked by an abrupt and powerful force in a direction vaguely to his right.

When Tom landed on a surface that felt like a rug, he thought, _This is impossible. The historical record of Hogwarts states that a person cannot apparate in or out of Hogwarts. Where am I?_

"To be quite honest with you," said a smooth, articulate voice, "I'm not at all surprised that you're here. The very idea that you chose to contact me first speaks mounds about your intellect."

Tom looked up. His eyes met with the tall, almost regal form of Mr. Malfoy.

Tom didn't want to waste any more time on the floor; he pushed himself up so that he could meet the older man eye to eye. It would be more beneficial for him to appear informed and at his best.

"And yet, the absence of surprise on my part does not negate my curiosity about how you deciphered what I wished to tell you."

Tom looked around the room shrewdly. He had to at least know what manner of place he had been whisked to. He was in a study of sorts with a desk and a wide selection of books piled neatly on shelves of what looked like expensive furniture. The walls were bedecked with tapestries of old and abstract events, those of which Tom knew must involve the Malfoy history as each tapestry was inscribed with a carefully painted "M". He had been taken to Mr. Malfoy's home.

"I take it elves are immune to the restrictions at Hogwarts," Tom finally said. Having satisfied himself in scanning the room, he now observed Mr. Malfoy.

"Once again, you display a remarkable astuteness for a young boy only in Second Year of school. Tell me…," Mr. Malfoy began carefully, "…how you came to be at the Forest at the time I suggested only quite vaguely."

The man was not very much like Tom's first impression of him. Tom remembered him being quite taller and if anything a bit more menacing. Now he only appeared enclosed and cautious as those eyes, identical to his son's, surveyed him from across the room.

Tom was no longer at all worried. He raised his chin a bit as he spoke. "Your letter was all too obvious; '_First Word?' _I immediately knew that the first word of each sentence meant something.A First Year could have deciphered it, had he read it."

Mr. Malfoy had a very pale smile; his eyes remained searching and perhaps a little patronising as his mouth turned up just a little. "Indeed…I admit to have underestimated you."

They were both feeling cautious, Tom could feel it. Tom knew why _he_ had to be careful, but he was unsure as to what Mr. Malfoy may have been keeping close to his chest. It was all in good time, anyway, for Mr. Malfoy invited him to take a seat.

There was only silence as they both sat -- Tom on one side of the desk and Mr. Malfoy on the other. It was a ridiculous and unfitting parody of Tom's conversations with Dumbledore. It irritated him a little. "You passed a message to me at the start of the year, and I am here to inquire why that is and what you meant for me to do?" he began bluntly.

Mr. Malfoy was now looking at him with a very funny expression as if a form of veiled rapture had come upon him, but Tom knew that would be a ridiculous assumption. What reason would Malfoy have for such behaviour? However, even as Tom second-guessed his speculation, his mind was hearkened back to that day in Flourish and Blotts-- Malfoy's look of startled surprise at the sight of him. _Yes_, whatever it was that caused this man to seek out Tom's company, had very much to do with Tom's appearance.

It was then that a frightening thought jumped into Tom's mind and that thought was too embarrassing to voice. _Does he know my father perhaps?_ He questioned silently, searching the older man's eyes for signs; for anything, any knowledge to give Tom the reprieve that there was a degree of absolution where his origins were concerned.

"What-" Tom began, but Mr. Malfoy cut in swiftly.

"We are quite short on time as it is late night and there's much cause for suspicion toward anyone out of bed at Hogwarts."

"So you _do_ know what, precisely, is happening at Hogwarts."

Malfoy's pale eyebrows rose. "I make it my business to know. I'm afraid Dumbledore is inept at handling the situation as a Wizarding headmaster with expertise would easily have captured the culprit by now. "

Tom frowned with much feeling. "I agree."

"Tell me, Tom; what has he done to adjust the matter?"

Tom hesitated. He really didn't want it to seem as if he was running off for help in his effort to outdo Dumbledore, but the thought that someone, who was well aware of the old man's shortcomings, was willing to help him did inject him with a sense of relief. "He believes I am the one."

A slow and disarming smile twisted Mr. Malfoy's expression, but it was not at all an ugly look on him. "He fears you; he knows what you are capable of," was the statement.

"Yes," Tom returned slowly. "However, he and all of Hogwarts know that I have no motive for attacking the Muggleborn as I am one myself."

Mr. Malfoy's smile slipped. "You are an orphan, are you not?"

Tom thought a moment before nodding. He was uncertain as to whether he had said quite the wrong thing.

"And you are also unaware of your parents' bloodline as you've no surname."

Tom nodded once more, his fingers curling into his palms. He was certain that he didn't like the tone that Mr. Malfoy had now taken. It was one of thinly veiled contempt.

"Then I would advise you not to parade such a fact about so proudly. On no account could a Muggleborn manage to comprehend the beauty and the wiles of magic as you have done. Always remember this, Tom."

Now Tom found himself in agreement with the older man. He had always somehow thought that way since he'd entered the magical world. And many people he knew would have agreed. Even Harry Potter was willing to admit that Tom must come from strong Wizarding stock. He had the capabilities, after all. And there, looking steadily up at Mr. Malfoy, who returned the gaze quite shrewdly, Tom wanted to ask him if he knew his father, if he knew why Tom had been thrust on the world, knowing of his own power, but unaware of its source. It was horrible moment of sickening, _burning_ hope, and Tom felt it would only be wise for him to push it back, push all those questions aside until he could finish with the matter at hand.

"Now to business," said Mr. Malfoy swiftly. "Your letter conveyed your concern for the school's wellbeing. Tell me, do you mean to disable the culprit to exonerate yourself?"

That was precisely what Tom wished to do, however he knew better than to wear his intentions proudly. "I mean only to prove my innocence… I hardly have any wish to endure the Headmaster's suspicion."

"And you should not, indeed," Malfoy put in quickly. "Should things go according to plan, Slytherin's work will be complete and that troublesome old fool will find that Hogwarts is no longer his permanent place of residence."

Tom found himself immediately enamoured with the thought. Still, something nagged at him quite deeply. "And Slytherin's work…it is a cleansing, am I right? What have y-er-_we­_ to gain from it?"

The older man leaned back in his chair, resting his white hand on the armrest. "A race of pure power. Imagine the heights our people could reach without the bland and counter-productive Muggle ideologies plaguing our current Ministry. This is a political shift, Tom, and I _know_ you must understand the severity of such a movement."

A rising and dark feeling of strange déjà vu flitted across Tom's insides as he swallowed. These words caught him, seduced him with their promise. _Pure power. "_And," Tom breathed, barely able to make out the words. "And who leads this political shift?"

The rapture bloomed into Malfoy's expression again, but much like his other expressions this was a subtle shift. However, the look of blatant expectation Tom was receiving did unsettle him a little. "He has spent much time in an unspecified state of death, but…" Here Malfoy's dark grey eyes rested unfalteringly on him. "I've recently come to the conclusion that we've all been _horribly_ mistaken in thinking so."

It took only a moment, and the name splashed up against the front of his mind and Tom felt his heart quicken a little. "_Voldemort_, you mean."

A smile.

Tom frowned. "Does this mean you are unsure as to whom the Heir is?"

"This means that the Heir works alone, and though his work may call to the cleverest of us, it is best to leave him to his work until such a time that circumstance deems it necessary for you to intervene."

He was confounded with the idea that he couldn't understand. Did Malfoy mean that the Heir and Voldemort were working together? Or did he mean that the Heir would ensure Voldemort's rise. If the latter was true, then Tom was definitely charged with the question of which side he would support. Of course he was unsure of the state of his blood and he was far too clever to jump to conclusions about himself before he was sure. He had to make absolutely certain that his ancestors were of Wizarding stock before he could be assuming. He had no need for the Muggle world in the first place now that the Wizarding World was his home, and it might perhaps be necessary to apply a vague mask over his past before he moved forward in the world.

However on the other end of the deal, Tom was thinking how unappealing it would be to follow after a political movement that already had a leader, and what was more was that the leader was supposed to be dead and the Heir, quite clearly a resident of Hogwarts. He didn't like the disorganisation involved and even if Tom could come into contact with Voldemort, he would certainly be dismissed as a pretentious twelve-year old. Yet, Mr. Malfoy had agreed to see him and he clearly saw _some_ potential which could only mean good things if Tom acquired an agreement with this man. Yes, Tom definitely wanted Mr. Malfoy on his side.

"There's…something you want from me, isn't there, Mr. Malfoy?" Tom said with great care, not meeting the older man's eyes.

"What makes you say so?"

"Your son has told me again and again that you are a politician. It's an idea that has been impressed upon me, and I know that this exchange cannot be without a price."

"Well, Tom," said the head of the Malfoy house. "If there's any exchange to happen, it is this: should you wish to be rid of Dumbledore's unfounded and jealous suspicion, you must be rid of Dumbledore. The Heir is elusive and clever just as you are and Dumbledore will soon find he is helpless to do much as the cleansing increases. The Ministry will soon tire of his useless efforts to stop what cannot be stopped and Dumbledore will be sent from the school. It is then, Tom, that you may uncover the Heir, both exonerating yourself and ridding the school of a frightening nuisance. You have my backing, of course."

For a moment, the possibilities flooded Tom's mind, but as was his wont, suspicion and cynicism fell first. "Why me, then? Why not your son? Or is it that such a responsibility is so serious and implicative that you wouldn't want your family involved, wouldn't want anyone to connect you to this business in anyway."

Mr. Malfoy paused, and Tom could see him thinking quickly. "…Do not… _misunderstand_ me, Tom. It is clear that we are not kin, but I've an eye for supreme potential and that is what you have. I will be honest with you when I say that the leader of our desired political shift will certainly look upon _you_ in favour."

"But _why_?" Tom demanded unblinkingly.

"Because…" Malfoy was thinking quite quickly again and Tom squinted, trying to peel the thoughts from the forefront of his mind, unsure whether he could really do it, but the most he received from his effort was a sense that the older man was actually trying to tell him something like the truth, but only attempting to find the most tactful words to put it in. "Because," Malfoy continued, "one could search for miles for someone _anyone_ like yourself and he would fall to disappointment. And I believe you are capable."

Tom nodded because he agreed.

"Now, it is late. I believe we've covered a lot of ground this evening," he said, rising from his chair. "Unless you have any more questions?"

Tom heard the door behind him open and soon the very same house-elf in his dirty rag of a pillowcase shuffled toward his master. "No, no more questions," he replied quietly before getting up.

"I see. Well, my house-elf will take you back to Hogwarts and if you have any questions, I shall be about the school grounds throughout the next little while."

Tom left that night, knowing he would have very little sleep.

* * *

Tom woke the next morning to find the school in a state of panic. All in reaction to the news of the young First Year's having been moved to the Hospital Wing after having had an encounter with the mysterious Heir. Pureblood students started selling weird and, according to Neville, ineffective talismans and herbs. Those of which began to make their way into the hands of assorted Muggleborn students.

The younger students were all distraught, moving together along the corridors, jumping at any sudden movements the older students made, and mainly crowding the hallways. This proved to be something of a nuisance to Tom as the workload became a little heftier with the holidays approaching. It also meant that Tom had little time to speak with Potter about the general issue at hand. It was for the best anyhow, though, since the issue itself had adopted an ambiguous nature. Since that evening with Mr. Malfoy, Tom had been debating internally with himself. Would it be wise for him to follow after this stranger's strategy? Did he want to be in favour with this new political movement or would he have more to gain from remaining neutral. He knew better than to take sides too soon in a situation he still knew so little about. Yet, the ideas intrigued him. He wanted to know that the greatest wizards saw his potential and not his name, and that he could rise above his possible blood status and create, heal, and make things new just as he'd been branded when he'd chosen his wand.

Of course, there was also Ginevra to think about.

She had developed a pallor quite unseemly as she wandered the halls, distraught over the attack of one of her year-mates. Tom had quite settled into the norm of disregarding her completely as just another person he really hadn't the time nor patience for, however, the misfortune of his having taken the left turn by one of the gargoyle-like statues near the west end of the castle undid his sensible decision by a long shot.

He had only just made the turn when he heard laughter coming from the end of the corridor. It meant very little to him at first until he saw Ginevra's twin brothers rounding the corner, holding each other up for their laughter. Tom hated those two. They were the metaphor for what was disorderly and decadent about the world he lived in, and such a reminder annoyed him immensely. He passed them as they walked up the hallway, their hiccoughs of laughter, trying his nerves.

"It's hilarious that face she makes when she gets the first shock," gasped one of the two.

"Ha ha! Like this?" The other attempted a theatrical impression of a look of horror and surprise.

Both fell about laughing. "Never gets old," one of them howled.

Tom resisted the desire to roll his eyes; it would gain him nothing to react as he passed.

"It's only lunch hour. We need to get Ginny one more time before the day's out."

"I _have _to hear her squeal like that again. It's brilliant! Sounds like a kitten that's eaten a Filibuster."

Tom kept walking to reach the end of the hall and he rounded the end. He was quite sure that had he not been looking, he might have tripped over her.

Ginevra was on her knees, tears flowing freely as she gathered a pile of scattered parchment and books. Her torn book bag lay nearby as her little fingers caught at each leaf. She didn't see him at first, which might have been why her tears were so unkempt as she gasped, her face and ears the colour of her hair. Tom was very annoyed.

Ignoring the evident rule against magic in the corridors, he swept his wand over the mess and the parchment leaves flew into his open hand. Ginevra looked and started at the sight of him. "You…are _ridiculous_," he remarked with a little vehemence. "If you have a mind to let people torment you, have it done where I won't be. I'm sick of your tears!"

She didn't bother to wipe her eyes. She stood quickly, glaring—too quickly dropping her waifish pink for an even deeper red. "No one asked you to come down this hallway! And I didn't _choose_ to have brothers like them!"

"It doesn't matter how _they_ are, it's how _you _are, you little idiot!" he retorted, abruptly thrusting the handful of parchment at her.

She whipped the parchment from his hands. "I'm _not_ an idiot!" she cried, stomping her little foot.

Tom made a gesture in the direction her brothers had wandered off. "Then what happened there? You had them cackling over your wit? They think it's funny how you squeal in terror when they jump out and frighten you. And what are you afraid of? The Heir? You're a Pureblood, for pity's sake!"

"They only startled me!"

"Yes, that would supply the reason you were crying," he returned loftily. The conversation was beginning to tire him now. He looked away from her angry stare and spotted three of her textbooks still scattered near the next wall. "_Accio_," he said.

It was as the textbooks reached his hand that he realised he was now holding her much-adored diary. A sudden and strange warmth brushed his insides as his fingers tightened on the thin spine of the thing. A light hum vibrated in his head and, for some reason, Tom thought of a cat, purring at his touch. He turned it over to look at the gold print on the front.

Ginevra appeared to have realised what he was holding. She lunged forward to grab it, but Tom raised it out of reach. Being quite a bit taller than she, this was not a problem. "Who is T. M. Riddle?" he inquired with a slight smile as the redhead bounced on the balls of her feet to try and snatch the diary from him.

"Give it back!"

Tom wordlessly slipped the little black book into his book bag, and as Ginevra set her fingers on it to take it back, Tom listlessly grabbed her near the collar and flung her from him, small that she was. She stumbled back and collided with the wall behind her, awkwardly sliding to the floor. "I will give it back once I am convinced that you are willing to rise above your foolish existence!" he snapped at her.

Trying to recover from the blow, Ginevra sat there – rubbing her arm—against the stone wall. She nodded blankly.

Tom left her there.

* * *

It was also on that very night that the nightmares began. They weren't frightening so much as they were disturbing. Sometimes he would see a full scene in his head, another would be a vague moment without a name or a setting.

He was on his knees, surrounded by dusty shelves, crates, and boxes. He was sorting them, his fingers pressing against each wooden crate as he marked them with his wand one after the other. The crates were made of a dark-coloured wood and the corners were splintered. He knew in his mind that he was in a hurry, though he couldn't possibly identify the reason. His right hand caught on a particularly sharp edge. He watched as the blood pooled over the neat and beautiful wood and through his mind ran the thoughts-- the old ones-- thoughts about weakness, unnecessary humanity, and his mother.

_Mother…who_? Tom thought vaguely as he dreamed. It was a bit too much blood, but he knew a spell to replenish it, yes, replenish one's own spilt blood as if it had been taken out for cleaning and replaced. That's what he wanted, though…clean untainted blood, blood that wasn't tainted with weakness that he could be…be…forever. He could do it; _only_ he could do it and he _would_.

His insides were beginning to panic as Tom knew he couldn't control what this other Tom was doing, what this dream would make him do. He was not in control as his own hands began to tear at themselves as they began to bleed and bleed…and his wand bled too; bled golden fluid that could only be raw magic injecting itself into the long streams and thick puddles of his essence. Tom still felt the pain, but the horror was far more real, far more _now_ as he felt his head go light and his own sigh of ecstasy echoed about the tiny little room.

And night after night it was like this. Tom would shudder in his sleep and find he was awake, unsure of himself, unsure whether he could move and if he were moving of his own will or that other self. He understood that self, but he didn't like to. He felt that self as one feels his own soul, his own mirror image—a carnival's distorted reflection, but backward—something too far gone for him to reverse and define.

There was the one dream that had him start awake and it would repeat again and again throughout the week. He was running through the hallways of Hogwarts, a horrible feeling of urgency—a need to be somewhere; to get to something. The halls were dark.

He felt the shadow looming behind him not long after. He knew that if he turned around he would die, however…he was not running from the thing. It was following him.

Tom felt the leftover feeling of having spoken Parseltongue; he knew. The massive shadow behind was a snake of enormous size, inside he felt startled, unsure, but this dream self ran on, attempting to keep to the beast's fluid speed moving up the corridor. It had to be done quickly. It could be anyone. He was supplying the warning blow.

Abruptly, he tripped and fell forward. Instinctively, he shut his eyes, but he could feel the large reptile bear over him—a moment out of his control as the beams of its eyes focussed solely on him and though the brightness of its gaze tried to pierce the slits of his eyes, he looked away from the horrible yellow. He would die, die from the fruit of his own stupidity.

It was that night of the following week he sat up in his bed and the shivers shook him with frightening convulsions as he tried to curl up, tried to get warm again. he felt a flicker of movement to his right.

They looked at one another simultaneously.

Potter hadn't yet put his glasses in place and he was then squinting at Tom.

"Nightmare?" the other boy whispered in query.

Tom had to curl his fingers in to keep from shaking. He shut his eyes quickly and nodded.

"Yeah, me too," Potter finally said

Tom refused to look at him again. It was horrible that Potter could witness this, this moment of fear in him. It always seemed the other boy made himself present where Tom could not show himself strong. It made him both angry and took from him any desire to be cordial. Slipping out of the sheets, Tom made to get up and go down to the Common Room. He couldn't bear to be in the dark any longer, especially with Potter's unnerving eyes fixed upon him.

But as he rose, the other boy rose too as if it had been some form of invitation, and Tom had only just gained some control of his nerves; his hands had steadied and the thought of dying or death was a little more distant.

"_We haven't had much time to speak with one another,_" Potter began in Parseltongue, his strange eloquence still in heavy contrast to his regular English speech.

Tom breathed deeply. "_No, we haven't_."

"_I was worried that after the Heir attacked Colin, Dumbledore would expel you. I looked all over the castle for you that day, but you were missing."_

He could barely hear the other boy, but the words in their hisses were there, and Tom shut his eyes again. Why couldn't he recover? "_Could we—I no longer wish to be here in the dark at the moment,_" he replied stiffly.

The Common Room clock read eleven minutes after four am. Potter settled in one of the armchairs across from Tom who found the warmth of the fire a better comfort than anything else surrounding him. The thought of death was now ludicrous and the rising, inevitable feeling of shame was coming upon him. To keep it at bay, he glared at Potter definably. "And what have _you_ been doing to apprehend the Heir?"

Potter observed his hands. "It's been difficult. I mean, you and I have agreed that Malfoy's not the one, but they—especially Ron—won't believeme. I mean, the only reason I can give them is that I've spoken to you about it."

This gave Tom pause. "And what reason do you give them not to trust your word?"

Potter appeared frustrated at this. "Look, it's not about that. Of course they trust me; they're my _friends."_

Tom shrugged. "You were furnished with two friends. I have only one, yet he would trust anything I told him."

The other boy looked away. "Look, I don't think we need to talk about this. Ron and Hermione have stood by me on everything else. It's not like I've given them a good reason why it's not Malfoy."

"And my telling you so is not enough?" He felt he had to demand an answer to this question; though he was unsure why.

The hardened frown on Potter's brow was unmistakeable as he stared steadily at Tom. "It's…enough for me…maybe not for them. You _know_ I trust you."

He had to fall silent; thinking on this for just a moment.

Potter leaned forward in his seat, seemingly gauging Tom's expression. "That does make us friends, right? I mean, if you trust me too."

Tom never trusted anyone.

"Yes," he returned blankly, looking carefully at the fireplace.

That seemed to settle it and the unpleasant tension between them was gone. Much the same as it had been that last summer. He could tell Potter about Dumbledore.

The other boy's eyes narrowed in levelled thought once Tom had related his version of that evening's event. "So if the attacks stop, he agrees to stop suspecting you?"

"No, that's not what I said," Tom sighed. "If the attacks stop, I am a former criminal under probation."

Potter thought about this. "Oh… So basically, it's like he thinks he just made you stop."

"Exactly. That's why I _must _find the one responsible; I have to show that self-righteous example of senility he's made a grave mistake."

The other boy sighed. He was clearly torn and Tom could barely think what he could say to convince Potter to stop looking up to the headmaster.

"I guess," Potter said, raising his feet up onto the armchair. "I guess this means we _need_ another attack to happen, and we need to catch the bloke in the act."

Tom nodded, but he was thinking of his conversation with Mr. Malfoy. Indeed, the attacks would surely continue allowing the cleansing they so desired, and then Tom would be free to apprehend him. Yet, as much as the result seemed to be in his favour, he did not understand Malfoy's motivation for allowing this to happen. What reward would come to the Malfoy house if Tom disabled the Heir, and if Voldemort was a political movement, then what did Potter think he was about, trying to be the hero. Whom was he saving? And how was Tom to know what actions Potter and his friends were taking in secret?

"You've promised to share everything you find with me," Tom commented lightly.

Potter looked up, his eyebrows coming together. "Sometimes …I _really _don't know what your problem is. Of course I'll tell you everything I know. I was just about to mention that the house-elf came to see me again, minutes after you left the infirmary. It looks like the Chamber has been opened before."

Tom started. "And you kept that quiet?"

"I was waiting to hear what Dumbledore said to you; you seemed a bit upset about it so I let you talk first."

He stood and began to pace. "You're a fool sometimes. Don't you see what this changes?"

"Well, at least I've graduated to _sometimes_," Potter remarked petulantly, but Tom ignored him.

"If it has happened before, then likely those who were at school during that time would know the family connected."

"Well, yes; if they had managed to find out _who_ it was in the first place."

Tom shook his head. "That's irrelevant. The attacks did stop and _someone _stopped them. It may have been temporary, but something triggered their cessation in the end."

"What would stop them?"

"Well," Tom began slowly. "I have two theories at hand. The first being that Dumbledore acquired a target much like myself and supplied the same…ultimatum and the second being that the culprit was actually found."

Potter paused. "You mean that Dumbledore's plan worked last time so he's using it again…without even finding the bloke who was doing it."

Tom nodded. "If I'm right, then it means that there's something in me that reminds Dumbledore of his old target. Whether it's the fact that I was out that night…or…"

He found he had to trail off due to where his thoughts had once again led him. In his mind's eye, he saw a man much like himself trying to convince Dumbledore that he was innocent, scouring the castle for the enemy. It was an unreal image; clearly something brought together by the ridiculous subconscious dreams in his mind, but Tom couldn't help it. He wanted to think that his father had once outdone the old man and he, Tom, was expected to follow suit. It felt like a legacy, felt like a purpose—a connection to something he had considered dead for a long time.

"Or?" Potter prodded.

"Or plain discrimination!" Tom snapped, knowing quite well that Potter couldn't read his mind, but wishing quite vehemently against it all the same.

Potter looked troubled. "I just don't understand why Dumbledore would do something like this. If he really thinks it's you, he doesn't understand that you're not like that. It's like all those people who think _I'm_ the Heir."

Tom rolled his eyes. "One day you'll come to the recognition that the world will _never_ understand you, in fact…._because_ you're different, even your _friends_ will not accept the attributes that make you who you are."

Doubt clouded the other boy's expression. "I'm pretty sure Ron and Hermione would accept me no matter what."

He felt sardonic at that. "Is that why you told me never to mention the fact that you were almost sorted into Slytherin to them?"

That got him, and he hesitated for a miniature moment. "It's not like that; I just prefer not to say it."

"Then why don't you tell them?"

"It's not important in the first place."

"Not important enough to make it a secret?"

"I could tell them," Potter cut in adamantly. "It just never came up; I would tell them like I told you and trust them not to tell anyone about it."

Tom frowned at this. "Fine. Then tell them. If they're as much your friends as you say they are, then they won't bat an eye over the issue."

A particular type of fretful resolution came over Potter as he nodded and looked over at the fireplace. "Of course they won't," he muttered.

* * *

When the subject of the newfound Duelling Club came up, Tom found that he was quite uninterested. The professors would probably offer meagre spells under a controlled environment, which sounded nothing short of dull to him.

Neville agreed, saying, "When it comes to duelling, I don't think there's much they could teach me, Tom."

Rather the two of them used that very evening for research. Neville was busy browsing the Healer's section, and had settled himself on the floor between the bookshelves, unshelving huge tomes as he took quick and rapid notes, his face twisted in concentration and his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. Tom, however, needed only one periodical to get his research done. He was hoping to come across a record of the attacks happening before. He had browsed through articles written during the sixties when it occurred to him that there was no specifying _when_ precisely the attack had occurred. He felt quite certain that Dumbledore must have been involved somehow, but as Madame Pince had informed him, records on the professors of Hogwarts were currently being kept in the Headmaster's personal library.

"Healer magic is a lot more complicated than I thought," Neville called thoughtfully to him, pushing a few books back onto the shelf.

"_Complications_ usually mean that you're not taking the time to separate the extremes of the subject. Look at it from that perspective," Tom returned, shutting his periodical in frustration.

"Separate the extremes," Neville murmured to himself as he rose from his spot and disappeared around the corner.

Tom looked away and frowned at the books in front of him. He'd been reading for an hour and _Neville_ had acquired more information than he had.

Someone came round the bookshelf to enter the alcove Tom had occupied.

Tom's glared at the intruder, only to start at the sight of a red-faced and quite nettled Potter. Without further words, the boy-hero plopped himself in a seat across from Tom, glaring into the distant space. Curious as he was, Tom wasn't about to distinguish this ridiculous behaviour with an inquiry. He re-opened his book, pulling a piece of parchment and a quill toward himself.

"Well," Potter sighed with heavy resignation. "looks like you were right."

Tom looked up. "Eh?"

Potter disappeared into his arms as he laid his head down. "I _spoke_ Parseltongue during the Duelling Club and…" Here Potter looked up again. "…_Slytherin_ was a Parselmouth, so-"

Tom abruptly reached forward and clamped his hand over the other boy's mouth. "Not here!' he hissed. Looking around quickly for any sign of Neville, Tom grabbed the other boy's arm and hauled him between Section R and S in the Records section. "Now repeat what you were saying and talk _quietly_. There's no telling who might be listening," he demanded, letting his hand fall away from the boy-hero's mouth.

Potter nodded blankly, yet to appear dejected again. He leaned forward and spoke quickly, but quietly. "I was at the Duelling Club. Snape set Malfoy against me and taught him some kind of snake spell. The snake was going to attack this bloke named Justin and I _stopped_ it when I spoke Parseltongue. Everyone was staring…and Ron and Hermione took me outside and told me that…_Slytherin_ was one…that it's his _trademark_." Here Potter shut his eyes, like something inexplicable was paining him. "Ron and Hermione think I _could_ be…the-the Heir that everyone else will think so too."

Before anything else; before his mind began whirring with quick ideas and solid solutions, an elated grin broke the surface and Tom could never tell himself why this was as he stepped back, feeling smug and at the same time happy. It was inconsequential, really, for Potter's friends to go against him. What did it mean to him, though, that not long after the incident Potter had come to _him_?

"What? What is it?" Potter queried desperately. "Why are you smiling?"

Tom quickly amended his expression, pretending to check the right and left entrances into the bookshelf space for eavesdroppers. "Because I think that's ridiculous," he muttered, managing to look back at the other boy with a straight face. "Forget all that for now. What did you say to them?"

"I tried to explain that I thought it was normal, but they kept looking like someone had died….as if…as if it was true that I was the Heir. It made me angry; it reminded me of what you said the other day. I thought I could trust them…trust them to accept me just like that. And it made me think that maybe it's not an accident that I'm a Parselmouth…maybe he's like my great-great-grandfather or something."

Tom stepped back and gave the other boy a withering look. "I already knew about Slytherin's ability and if it were anything of consequence that you've the same talent, wouldn't I have mentioned it? Don't tell me you believe them? So what if your enemy has the same abilities you have? It just means you have equal footing now, but never, _never _let anyone deceive you into thinking a natural ability makes you sub-standard. We talked about this during the summer, didn't we? About your Muggles? They've no right to estrange your power because they fear it." He paused in quick thought. "And it may be essential that we make this known here at the school."

"Right," Potter sighed, glaring off somewhere near Tom's left ear. "Justin thought I was egging the snake on or something. Any idiot would have been able to see that I saved his life!"

"The problem," continued Tom, "is that people too often associate the extremes of power with evil."

"Yeah, something like that. I guess that might be why Dumbledore thinks it you, right?"

Tom smiled grimly. "It's true that we're both victims at the moment. I don't know about you, but I'm a little tired of it."

Harry Potter's eyes narrowed. "What are you going to do?"

Was it right? Telling Potter about Mr. Malfoy, about the political movement, about the opportunity to show them all; would it be beneficial to take the Boy Who Lived with him in all this? There was no doubt that he wanted to, but Tom knew he could be cleverer than that. There was too much at stake where his future was concerned, and he needed to be up there, admired and officiated as someone important; someone that mattered beyond the anonymous orphan. It was to be _acknowledged_ because he deserved it.

"Erm…Tom?"

He looked up and around. Neville was standing at the end of the bookshelf, his hands full of parchments and he was holding Tom's book bag. Neville sent a shrewd glance at the silent Potter beside Tom as he approached. "It's nearly nine-thirty. Curfew ends in three minutes; we've got to get back to the Common Room."

"Right," Tom sighed, raising himself up only then realising his proximity to Potter and how off-colour it must look to Neville for them to be standing there.

With the time being as late as it was Tom never thought to be wary of his surroundings just then. After all, Neville had taken it upon himself to fill Potter's thoughtful silence with a long reiteration of all he had picked up from the texts. Tom had very little interest in medical magic and took the opportunity to go into introspective thought.

Therefore he sensed the presence a second too late and his wand clattered to the floor as he heard a shrill little voice cry, "_Visveres_!"

His book bag went flying as he collided with Potter behind him and Neville's parchments scattered as all three of them hit the stone wall. Neville broke into a litany of curses as Potter went into a form of alert animal mode, raising his wand as he fluidly extricated himself from Tom.

Tom, wincing, looked up.

It was Ginevra.

Instinct made him very angry, and he knew had Neville not spoken first—which jolted him back to earth—he might have made efforts to kill the little brat.

"Who do you think you're using that curse on?!" Neville demanded, rising.

Ginevra was scared; Tom could tell from the way her wand was shaking and her lower chin was quivering, but her gaze was hard with determination. She glanced at Neville. "You taught it to me," she stated, her voice quivering on the edge of hysteria. "You just never asked me what I needed it for."

Neville whipped his wand out, but Potter was quicker. "_Expelliarmus_!" he shouted, and both Ginevra's and Neville's wands flew to the opposite wall of the corridor. Tom had now gained his bearings; reaching out, he grabbed his own wand and was on his feet in a second.

"Don't attack her, Neville, "Potter ordered before looking at Ginevra in high surprise. "And Ginny…what are you _doing_?"

She tried not to look penitent, but her ridiculous crush seemed to overrule her determination. "I'm _sorry_, Harry; I didn't want to get you—I just…"

Tom was going to use the Lung Squeeze Curse on her. That would teach her something for sure, then he would deal with Neville for doling out a curse that _he_, Tom, had invented. Ginevra saw him from behind Potter and ducked quickly out of the way and the curse bounced off the walls before petering away to nothing. As she ducked, Tom saw her crash right into his book bag. It was only for a wild moment that Tom was surprised and confused as she began tearing at it.

"Oh," he said, after a moment of realisation once she had pulled the little black book and tucked it quickly into her robes. He would still get her though, just to let her know that he couldn't be bested when he was alert.

"_Confringo!"_

"_Expelliarmus!_"

As both spells collided mid-air and exploded into a pile of smoke, Tom took a moment to look at The Boy Who Interfered in Everything with contemptuous disbelief. "Is that the only spell you _know_?"

Potter was looking in puzzlement at the smoke their colliding spells had created. "It's all I could think of." He shook himself awake. "But look, why are you attacking each other?"

Neville had gone to regain his wand and was now pointing it interchangeably at Potter and Ginevra. And Tom wasn't about to reveal just what he intended to do at this point. It was Ginevra that broke the silence, however.

"I did it, just like you said, and I think that should be enough proof for you!" she cried at Tom. "I can do whatever I want to! And just because you think you're better than me doesn't mean I have to agree! We're even!"

Neville and Potter were staring in confusion as Tom glared at her. "Pick up your wand," he returned coldly.

"Tom?" Potter began.

"Don't interfere!" he hissed at him, stepping forward.

Ginevra looked quickly around, worried about breaking eye-contact with Tom. She shifted over the wand warily, still looking at him as she bent down slowly to pick it up. She rose, a little less worried now, but shaking all the same.

"So," Tom said, feeling angrier and angrier by the second. "You think we're even, do you? How dare you even suppose it! You'll be a puddle of your own entrails if I get to you."

"The Explosive Air Curse isn't the only spell Neville taught me," she snapped back, her eyes narrowing. "I made sure to learn that one you first used on me. The Lung Squeeze? Yeah, I learned that."

Tom mimicked her expression, his own eyes narrowing to mere slits of malice. "I'm sure Neville had his reasons for _secretly_ tutoring you."

Neville made a nervous gesture; Tom saw it out the corner of his eye

Now Ginevra looked smug. "I didn't want to fight you; this was the only way to get it back from you."

"Oh…you won't be _fighting_ me, you little fool," he spat, raising his wand in one quick movement.

Of course Potter was in the way and Ginevra had to look at him with that ridiculously starry-eyed adoration as he faced Tom with a hard look. "You're not going to hurt her," he stated coldly.

Tom knew it would only be beneficial to change tack at such a point. Potter would not understand his motivation and he hadn't the time to explain himself; no, it was that he hadn't the patience to do so just then. He smiled his most sympathetic smile. "Ah, I think you misunderstand what's going on here. I've been…_helping_ her get stronger with her magic, but unlike Neville here she refuses to improve the hard way. It is her own doing that it has come to this…isn't that right…Ginevra?" he asked, fixing his gaze on her—using every bit of intense will to make his unwavering glare say, "agree or you will suffer pain when he's not here to protect you."

Apart from spotting Tom's look, Ginevra kept her gaze trained on Potter who was now looking down at her in askance.

She gave a faint nod and a bit of a sheepish smile at his look of surprise. Clearly Ginevra was already under the impression that this was some form of tutelage. She really _was_ inexplicably ridiculous, was Tom's general conclusion.

"Erm…right," Potter said, making his own simplified conclusion. She continued to gaze at him with something like hopeful intensity.

As disgusted as he was with the exchange, Tom had calmed down quite a bit. Gesturing for Neville to follow, he began to make his way down the corridor.

* * *

Potter's new and constant presence was a matter of great annoyance to Neville especially as he was trying to study, but Potter was fretting. Tom, he, and Neville had adjourned to the library when their Herbology class was cancelled that afternoon. As Neville was drawing up a couple flow charts for his latest project and Tom read through records of different eras in Wizarding history in hopes of finding more on Slytherin, Potter shifted and glared, clearly thinking on the boy who thought he attacked him or even the angst regarding his friend's betrayal.

It was all so uninteresting to Tom just then. He chose to ignore it.

Then the boy-hero started to mutter. Random idioms broke out about people knowing better and other such nonsense. As Neville broke his third quill in irritation and came to the point that every time Potter so much as sighed, Neville's hand would inch closer to his wand. Tom rose.

"Come on! You're being stupid so we're going to look for this Jordan or whatever!" he snapped, pulling the other boy up by his arm.

The Hufflepuffs were on the other side of the library. It didn't take long before Tom realised that this was the opportunity he was waiting for.

"…if Potter's marked him down as his next victim, it's best for him to keep a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin's been waiting for this to happen since he let it slip to Potter he was Muggleborn. Justin actually _told _him he'd be down Eton. That's just not the kind of the thing you bandy about with Slytherin's Heir on the loose, is it?"

A girl asked a question that Tom couldn't quite make out.

"Hannah," the speaker replied. "He's a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that's the mark of a Dark Wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue."

Tom knew it was enough even before they began about Potter's mysterious survival of Voldemort's curse. He seized the back of Potter's robes and pushed him into the group. Potter, caught off guard, grabbed the bookshelf and regained his balance as he stepped out from behind the bookshelves, but the manner in which he jumped out at them seemed much more predatory than even Tom intended.

They all froze.

Tom drew his wand and stepped out as well. He had come to a firm and unwavering decision; he was ready to deal with this once and for all.

* * *

"I can't believe you did that? Where'd you learn that spell?"

"It solved your problem, though, didn't it?" Tom sighed, tucking his wand away in his sleeve again.

"But won't they think _you're_ the Heir now?"

Tom didn't smile. "I want them to think that. I even want word to get to Dumbledore."

"But you actually _conjured_ Slytherin's form…he was standing right behind you. Isn't he supposed to be dead?"

He rolled his eyes at Potter, who was following him, looking at him with some form of awe now. The look didn't displease him. "Don't be silly; neither you nor those jumped up Hufflepuffs have any idea of what Slytherin _really_ looks like. Nor I for that matter. I just placed the Slytherin emblem on his forehead when I conjured the image. The Aspergus Ero Charm is child's play compared to the other Illusion Techniques in the Advanced Charms Reference guide. When I conjured him, I made sure it looked like I didn't intend for it."

"But I still don't get why…"

Tom turned on Potter, still in thought but willing to make things perfectly clear. "When I catch the Heir, doesn't the severity of Dumbledore's accusing me deepen?"

"What?"

They began ascending a flight of stairs and turned down a corridor that was both icy cold and dark, the torches having been blown out by a nearby loose windowpane. "I _mean_ that Dumbledore's efforts to uncover my nonexistent treachery will backfire the more he suspects me, and it motivates me all the more to stop the Heir and turn him in."

Potter stopped walking. "Hang on; you _want_ Dumbledore to suspect you even more now so that you can catch the Heir and then what…Dumbledore looks stupid?"

Tom sneered. "That's hardly the skin of it. I'm supposing the reward offered for taking such initiative for the school will not go unrewarded, and I can make use of this situation to the point where I become somewhat of a martyr. Once I catch the Heir, I could probably take whatever there is to have as a hero."

Now Potter seemed a little off-put. "So where does that put me?"

He gave Potter a quick smile. "That will depend on your cooperation. You have great immunity at the school simply for your name; I will require your ability to move at the most crucial moments and together, we'll progress."

A shrug greeted this statement. "I'm not trying to catch the Heir to…er…progress. I just want the attacks to stop."

Tom dismissed this as untruth. "Moving forward to achieve what you want is progress, Potter; regardless of what it is you want. But you see how we can both benefit?

"I s'pose."

It really was his best idea yet, Tom thought. Of course, that would mean that the attacks would have to continue in order for him to tail the culprit. He could freely drop rock-sized hints that he may be the culprit as Dumbledore scrambled after him for real proof. In the end, he would triumph. He would find the Heir, disable him, and drag him kicking and screaming to the feet of the Ministry. With the new political movement in upturn, there could only be benefits.

Unfortunately there was only so much that Tom could be ready for. His idea had only just come upon him that moment in the library; resolution's motivation, it was called. He still had much to prepare, and he still had to speak a little more with Mr. Malfoy. However, there could be no preparation for what happened next.

Potter tripped.

It didn't occur to Tom to see what exactly the boy had tripped over at first. Before he could think he had flung out his arm to steady the other boy before he felt his foot immersed in a cold and icy essence. Looking down, Tom started back.

The Gryffindor ghost; the one they called "Nearly-Headless Nick" was in a state of strange grey paralysis; it's makeup turned into a dark grey smoke as opposed to the twinkling silver of before. Potter, who was now scrambling up, was staring in horror at a boy lying cold as if dead on the floor.

It was another attack. A double one.

"It's Justin! We-we don't want to be found here," Potter gasped, looking up and down the corridor.

Tom shook his head. "Incorrect. This is exactly where I want to be found," he said, reaching to his right sleeve, rolling it up quickly. If he executed this correctly, he could achieve a level of ambiguity in this situation and therefore still go scot-free whilst keeping to Dumbledore's suspicion. "Pull out your wand, Potter."

Still badly shaken, the other boy pulled his wand out.

And it was as he did that, a door right next to him opened with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist emerged at a quick pace. He stopped short before Tom and Potter, his bow-tie swirling madly and a wicked grin on his lips. "Ohh, two ickle Second-Years in a dark corridor alone. And what's potty wee Potter up to?"

Of course he saw the figures lying still on the floor. He didn't react; didn't start in surprise. Rather, he twirled on the spot and filled his lungs. Potter jumped forward as if to stop him. Tom seized his chance right then. Lunging forward, he caught Potter's hand and quickly entwined their fingers so the other wouldn't get away as Peeves screamed.

"ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAACK!"

Potter whirled on Tom in surprise and confusion just as the icy pain took hold within the blood in Tom's arm. The near-invisible thread jumped apart and wound its way up both boy's arms. As distant doors slammed and footsteps came running, he felt the pull as both of them were slammed back against the wall, the thread chaining them mercilessly to stone.

"Wha…?" Potter began.

But the people had flooded forward and were now staring in aghast silence at the sight of both the Justin boy and Nearly-Headless Nick petrified.

Tom was aware that there were prices of some humiliation to pay in order to rise up. And as the Ligatio began to lead them both to Dumbledore's office, followed by McGonagall, Tom was more than eager to deal the old man a very crippling move.


	10. Chapter Nine

**A/N- I don't always approve of long author's note. After all, you're here to read the story, not about me. General nature of this note is to thank the readers and especially the reviewers. **

**Disclaimer- IF Any of that were mine, I'd have bought a new laptop by now.**

**-Time Or Manner-**

Chapter 9

Potter didn't waste any time before protesting as the Ligatio dragged them up the corridor. "Professor McGonagall…Tom and I…we didn't-"

"It's out of my hands, Potter," she returned sombrely. For a short moment, her eyes drifted toward Tom's, her expression revealingly calculating.

_Even she cannot resist thinking that I must have done it_, Tom thought scathingly, returning her gaze with defiance._ If I do this correctly, the result may come easier than I might have hoped_.

It seemed that the Ligatio was much more merciless than the last time Tom had been at odds with it. The force which pulled the two boys was much stronger and much more painful as they raced down the corridor at an unflattering speed, leaving their Head of House to watch in that same calculating manner. Tom chose not to allow this to bother him all that much since it was through this that he could develop his theories of possibility. The first being that Dumbledore wasn't as omniscient when it came to the activity of his spell on Tom, and the second concluded that the old man knew, but was unmindful of the fact that Potter may have been involved in this attack.

As before, Dumbledore's office was empty but for his ridiculous furniture, and Tom—along with his newly acquired accomplice—was forced inside as the large wooden door slammed shut behind them. There was a brief struggle as the Ligatio attempted to push them both into the same chair, but as the middle of the thread broke open to chain Tom in place, Potter rolled out of the way, his hand raised high to avoid the unseen magic.

Tom shut his eyes as the last of the pain ebbed and the Ligatio settled, knowing its victim was immobile.

"Wh-what _was_ that?" Potter spluttered, sitting up from his spot on the floor.

Tom shifted so that at least his sitting position demanded some dignity. The Ligatio had forced him into an unkindly position where it might have seemed his spinal cord was in pain as he sat back, having to lean his weight against the arm of the chair where his right hand was tangled. He didn't look at Potter, however. "It is the way by which the Headmaster seeks to control me and _supposedly_ prove that I am guilty."

It didn't take long; Potter soon stood at Tom's side. "Why," he began slowly, "are you sitting like that?"

"The alternative would be to kneel on the floor," Tom returned shortly. It was not within Tom's agenda to gain Potter's sympathy, but he knew it would be essential to have the other boy on his side before Dumbledore arrived.

He was pleased to see the look of resolution cross Potter's face as he stated, "Well, I'm a witness this time and I _know_ you didn't do it."

Tom considered the other boy carefully. "And if he comes to suspect you?"

That made the other boy go very quiet into a sudden state of introspective silence.

"Anyway," Tom added. "It's all for the best in the end. He may do as he likes, but when we drag the heir out from hiding, he will be forced to re-think his actions."

Potter was no longer listening; he had wandered to a shelf near the right end of the room. Tom twisted around in his seat to see what had so fixated the other boy. He was just in time to see the Sorting Hat go down over the other boy's eyes.

"What _are_ you doing?" Tom demanded, but was met with silence and the prospect of glaring at the unresponsive bottom half of Potter's face.

Mere seconds passed before Potter pulled the hat from his head, an expression of frustration crossing his features. As he replaced it in its position on the shelf, he glared at the hat as if it had insulted him. There was a pause as Tom continued to observe him. "What is it?" he queried finally.

It seemed as if the boy-hero had quite forgotten Tom's presence as he started and focussed his gaze on Tom. "What? Oh…it's noth-"

He broke off as a horrible gagging noise filled the silence. Tom, who couldn't turn his head in that direction, leaned back as Potter made his way to the other end of the office.

"I think it may be dying," Potter muttered, then as if on a whim, he broke into something like bitter laughter. "All we need now is for Dumbledore's pet to die right when we're alone in his office-"

Tom felt a flash of heat and heard a cry of pain at the same time as Potter's shout. Whatever it was that Potter had spotted had clearly caught fire by some circumstance. Tom opened his mouth to demand what was happening when the office door opened and Dumbledore stepped inside.

Potter's protestations and cries lulled the rage that Tom felt rising up. It was too much to be near the old fool now, knowing his condescension went beyond the level of teacher-student, but as a controller to his puppet. Tom could hardly bear such a notion as, through slitted eyes, he watched the Headmaster slide the door shut behind himself.

The old man's eyes drifted for a miniscule second towards Tom in the chair, before his gaze descended on the boy-hero standing in the corner.

"Professor, your bird-- we couldn't do anything—he just caught fire—"

"Ah, yes," Dumbledore replied, calm-as-you-like. "About time, I'd say; he's been looking dreadful for days. I've been telling him to get a move on."

Tom stopped listening as he quickly began to formulate the best manner by which to push this issue to the front and the best manner to retain control over the conversation. Clearly-- though Dumbledore was fully aware that Potter had been there with Tom-- his manner was not as grave as he made light chit-chat about such a useless animal as a phoenix.

It was as Dumbledore finally made his way towards his large claw-footed desk that Potter followed suit to stand by Tom and caught Tom's eye, followed with a frown up at the Headmaster. "Er...Professor, about the attacks…Tom and I didn't do anything. We were just walking from the library, and then we found-"

"_Harry_," Dumbledore cut in carefully. "Harry, I'd advise you not to worry over this issue. Innocence isn't something one acquires through obstacle, but something one has innately." Here the Headmaster smiled warmly, but for a blind second his icy blue gaze swept over Tom, who glared with even more fury. How was it that Dumbledore could address both of them in a completely different manner over the same issue?

"You don't think it was either of us who did it?" Potter exclaimed.

Dumbledore considered the both of them, the tips of his fingers poised in the form of a steeple as his eyes flickered between both boy's faces. "I'll admit to have made a miscalculation. The foundation of it is, Harry…Tom…do either of you have anything to tell me? Anything at all?"

The Ligatio's grip on the chair fled and Tom was able to sit normally as he stared incredulously at the old man. That was it? A mere word from the Boy Who Lived and all guilt was cleared. _No_, Tom thought bitterly. _That's fundamentally impossible!_ He noticed quickly that Potter was looking at him, in what he seemed to think was furtive askance. Tom had nothing to tell the old fool, and he rather wished Potter would decide the same. He returned the furtive glance with an eye-roll as if to say, "Figure it out, idiot."

"No," said Potter, turning to face the Headmaster, "there isn't anything, Professor."

Potter left the office first as Tom was still adjusting to the strange vertigo that came with being abruptly released from the Ligatio. He didn't even bother to look at the Headmaster as he took his leave, but rather he fixed his expression into a deliberate state of impassivity. It was only as he settled his hand on the door handle that Dumbledore's sombre voice broke the silence.

"While it is true that I've miscalculated the lengths you would go to ensure your immunity, I can only warn you that the security in Hogwarts tightens with each attack. At this point, Tom, you could agree with me when I tell you that you've very little room to move from now on. I advise you to be very cautious about your future decisions."

Tom turned slowly; very slowly letting his heel swivel on the spot as he fixed his eyes on the fool before him. "Your only miscalculation,_ Professor_, was to suspect _me_."

* * *

Tom heard them before the stone door at the bottom slid open.

From the sounds of it, he was quite certain it could only have been Hermione, Weasley, and Potter. Clearly, the discarded duo wished to reconcile with their fallen hero. Tom stepped silently out of the doorway leading from Dumbledore's office.

Potter was standing at the entrance in front of Tom, not looking at his friends; his expression stony as Hermione and Weasley glanced at Tom.

"Look, I've just had a lot to think about these last few days," he was saying.

"Harry, that _can't_ be why you've been avoiding us," Hermione entreated, her arms crossed, but a visible glaze of feeling in her stare. "If something's bothering you, you could've at least _said_ something."

Weasley gave an awkward fidget. "She's right, mate. I mean, maybe if we'd been here, then you wouldn't have been called into Dumbledore's office to start with."

Potter remained stony-faced as he looked at a point beyond their heads. "There wasn't anything to tell."

Now Hermione had become frustrated. It seemed the conversation had already escalated during the few moments Dumbledore had kept Tom. "Harry, you stormed off right after telling us about your-your-"Here Hermione lowered her voice significantly as if to shield Tom from the word, as if she were protecting Harry from his own truth. Her brown eyes widened as she reached out. "…about your _Parseltongue_."

Tom knew it would happen before it did. It was, after all, inevitable in the face of all that had been bugging the other boy during this time. The very ideas that Tom himself had awoken in Potter were forefront in his grudge against his friends. That they couldn't accept this thing about him the way it was would always impair the boy-hero from his own personal progress. Potter shrugged out of Hermione's hold in a rather vicious way causing her to stumble back in sharp alarm.

Ron Weasley chose that moment to step in. "We just want to know what we did; whether we can fix what's bothering you." The redhead attempted a comical grimace as he shot a significant look at Hermione's currently bowed head. "She's been mad about it these past days, you know. Can't be that bad, can it?"

Hermione raised her head. "We really want to help, Harry, but we can't if you don't tell us how sometimes."

Tom suddenly felt as if a scale had just been tipped and it was soon apparent to him that understanding had left him. He had expected two types of behaviour from Potter's former friends, but neither suited this response. Hermione should have begun to cower under Potter's newfound anger and Weasley should have distanced himself from the situation, willing it away with obscene casualty, and gradually Potter would cease to rely on them, and just as _gradually_ begin to rely on…

Potter's frown broke and he slipped into his usual grim, but level expression. "I've always been a Parseltongue; it's been with me since birth…" Green eyes flickered over to Tom for a miniscule second. "It has nothing to do with the Heir of Slytherin!"

Both of Potter's friends stared at him in remarkable shock. Hermione's voice was no more than a gasp. "_Harry_," she cried. "We _never_ thought that-you don't understand at all! We _know_ you're not the one doing it!"

Weasley seemed to be experiencing a surprise beyond words as he stared with expressionless wonder at the boy-hero.

Potter spluttered. "But you said, 'for all we know, you could be'! You said that!"

Hermione looked helplessly at the redhead. "Oh goodness, I _meant_ the others! I was trying to make it clear that they have the freedom and room for suspicion to think that you _could be_ the Heir. I didn't actually think you are!"

Tom looked away, out at the circle of blue outside the window nearby. _Of course_, he thought snidely. _It's all so simple for people like that. Words and words, then everything's all right. Fools, the lot of them._

It was only as Tom walked away that he heard Weasley say, "If we thought it was you, then why would we be planning this thing with Malfoy?"

* * *

It was within the next week during breakfast that Professor McGonagall handed out the sign-up sheet for those going home for the holidays.

"My uncle's library has a little section on Vivacity charms and plants with energising components. I want to see if there's something there I haven't read here," Neville began immediately as he signed the sheet, looking apologetic.

Tom gave a vague nod as the sign-up sheet was passed to the people across.

"Not that you'll really be in need of the company, will you?" continued Neville, and Tom found he had to look up at the strange irony in the other boy's tone. Neville was sending a contemptuous glance at Ginevra who had just seated herself across from them.

"Good morning," she said deliberately, not breaking eye contact for a moment as Tom shot her a glance of exasperation. He knew it now. Her ideas about him had intensified upon her finding that he and Potter were in such frequent communication. To reach Potter through him was her foremost intention, and Tom was definitely not having any of that…at least not until he had found the appropriate thing to take from her in exchange.

He leaned forward over the table and gave her a warm smile. She appeared startled at first, but returned it hesitantly.

"Ginevra?"

She nodded.

"Do pass me that sign-up sheet when those people next to you are finished with it," he returned promptly.

She obliged readily, thereafter Tom set to ignoring her.

Neville leant over. "You're going home for Yule?"

Tom motioned for him to lower his voice as he muttered quietly. "I am testing Dumbledore's reach outside this school"

The other boy looked hesitant. "What…what if Potter finds the Heir while you're gone?"

"What's come over you, Neville? Usually your confidence in me is immoveable. Has the possibility of Potter's victory this year weighed on you that much?" returned Tom, with an ironical smirk.

Neville appeared suddenly quite stricken. "N-no, that's not what I was thinking at all!"

Neville's spluttering tone and evident desire to clear his words reminded Tom of Potter and his friends. It was an irritating reminder.

"Neville, that's exactly what you thought," cut in Ginevra suddenly.

Tom, already irritated, looked across at her. "And upon what law were you authorised to eavesdrop, you deliberately stupid girl?"

Ginevra's mouth tightened with visible angry distress, but before she could audibly react, Tom felt a strong grip on his upper left arm.

"What did I hear you call my sister?"

Tom tilted his head back casually. After all, it would be prudent to know precisely who his audacious assailant was before he could allow himself the indulgence of rage.

It was Ron Weasley.

Tom had always been casually aware of the red-haired portion of the Potter Trio's feelings about him. Tom's attitude towards such enmity was stolid indifference. However, Tom felt that his indifference to anyone's simple-minded emotive-based behaviour extended to a mere icy and wisdom-based suppression. In other words, he did not care for anyone to act on their feelings toward him.

So naturally upon catching sight of Weasley, Tom cast a glance at Neville, who jumped to his feet instantly. Neville's hand came down on Weasley's as his other reached for his wand.

"_Make way for Slytherin's protégé! He's coming forward for breakfast, isn't he?_"

The horrible Weasley twins had recently taken it upon themselves to be Potter's spokespeople about the Slytherin's Heir issue and made it a strong point to satirise the possibility of the boy-hero being the much-feared Heir. This was one of many entry announcements commonly made for Potter.

"What's going on?"

Tom didn't even need to turn; he was immediately aware of the speaker and this fuelled that suppressed irritation so much more. Tom straightened in his chair, his gaze passing over a now much-excited Ginevra, if only to look elsewhere as he spoke. "Potter, call off your ginger dog; you know what could happen to him."

Tom heard Potter let out one of his sighs, but his irritation was still mounting. Weasley did not release his arm and just the same, Neville did not loosen his grip; rather both hovered over Tom, which gave him a distinctly juvenile disposition.

"Ron, what's up?" Potter queried then.

By now the rest of the Gryffindor table was eyeing this spectacle.

"This git's taking a pop at my sister!" The irate Weasley hollered, and several Hufflepuffs from the next table over looked up.

"What'd you say to Ginny?" Potter asked, now developing a pattern to his untimely mediation.

Tom, of course, still wouldn't look at the other boy. "Perhaps this would be the most opportune time for you to become familiar with the idea that not everything is your concern, _Potter_," he returned slowly.

The tension solidified. Weasley shrugged out of Neville's hold, and Neville backed down, but didn't bother to replace his wand in his pocket.

It was the undeniably parental tone in Potter's voice as he said, "Tom…" that made Tom turn in his seat, readily spoiling for a fight. The other boy's eyes were fixed determinedly on him; it wasn't a look of injured questioning as Tom had come to expect from Neville in such a situation, rather he gazed at Tom with a look of calculation towards something inexplicable. This only served to anger Tom all the more. The deep truth was that Tom hadn't the faintest idea what he would do once he began, but the general frame of his motivation rested on the idea that he would not need Neville to put the boy-hero back in his place.

"I should very much like to know what has given any of you the idea that wand-waving in the Great Hall is in any way commendable behaviour!"

McGonagall had, of course, returned to retrieve the sign-up sheet, and her sharp narrow eyes seemed to be apprising all four of them at the same time of her great displeasure. She seemed to decide that her gaze was merit enough for such behaviour as she snatched up the parchment and walked back to the head table. Tom's eyes followed her and met the wide blue fixed on him.

Dumbledore was watching him. A slightly complacent smile had lifted the old man's expression and Tom knew precisely why this was.

_Enough_, Tom thought. _It wouldn't do to be here like this anymore._ Lifting his gaze above the crowd and past the tiresome gaze of the Headmaster, he rose and departed.

"Tom!"

It was obvious who it was. Tom just didn't want to respond. He wanted to continue walking until he got to the Common Room where there would be some quiet before their next lesson. No, in truth, he wanted to whirl around and reply something quite scathing to boy-hero. He wanted to make the world aware of its stupidity in the cruellest possible manner. Most of all Potter.

Most of all.

"Would you wait a moment at least?"

Feeling only contrary, he stopped with the intention of waiting but a short minute. "Why are you following me?" he called out.

"Because I have something to say to you, that's why," Potter called back. "I've been trying to talk to you since last week. Where've you been?"

Tom finally turned. "_Accomplishing_ things apart from wasting time with people who haven't the faintest clue as to what's going on."

Potter folded his arms, sighing. "I keep telling Ron and Hermione that Malfoy's not the Heir and that he has nothing to do with the Heir at all, but they still want to…look, Hermione's planning it so that we polyjuice into Crabbe and Goyle and question Malfoy."

Tom's eyebrows turned downward in disbelief. "What?"

Potter shrugged. "Well, we figured he would let something slip to his friends since he likes to brag…but if he's not the Heir, then…"

"It's the most ridiculous plan I've ever heard!" Tom exclaimed. "Do you realise that you'd be easily detected particularly since you've spent so little time with neither Malfoy nor his friends?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"And you were just planning on doing this strictly placed on dumb luck?"

"It's not dumb luck…it would only be for an hour, and Hermione says we'll be talking to Malfoy alone…"

Tom shook his head. "Even listening to yourself, you should know that this could only go wrong. The best thing to do in such a situation is-" he broke off abruptly. _What am I doing? I'm attempting to give him advice on a subject of so little benefit? _ "Look, it's a foolish idea, and it has no merit. I don't need to get involved in something that wastes so much time."

"_Well_, that's why I came to you," Potter returned tentatively. "I reckoned you knew what we could spend this Christmas doing…then I could sort of, you know, distract them with your idea. I mean, what do you plan to do next week when classes end?"

Tom paused. He hadn't really intended to let Potter know that he was going to Diagon Alley for the holidays. Point in fact; he didn't intend to tell anyone. He could go for those two weeks, and then come back. He knew quite well that it would be outside the confines of the school that he would find all the information he needed. It would also be easier to contact Mr. Malfoy.

"I won't be here," he replied quietly.

Potter's blatantly expressive eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that I've signed up to leave the school this Yule."

The other boy made a strange sound of disbelief as a half-smile sprang up in his expression then faded to make room for something like outrage. "You _can't_ leave _now_."

Tom was highly surprised. "Excuse me?"

It took a deep breath for the other boy to repeat himself, but he did. "You _can't_ leave."

Obstinate anger overtook all the other emotions, and Tom could only glare. "I'm leaving, Potter. Don't make a fuss over it; I _have_ to since there's little I can learn whilst under the Headmaster's eye. You of all people should know this."

Potter seemed to shake his head as if to clear it. "I'm sorry; I just…it's like you're the only one I can talk to nowadays, you know."

Tom rolled his eyes. "That's because I'm the only one perceptive enough to handle your oddities, Potter. Holidays are a mere two weeks. Don't be another source of idiocy at this school, _please_."

Potter grinned, but it felt something like that sheepish laugh a week ago in the face of a subject too heavy for a simple forgiveness like that. There had been a grudge there between Potter and his friends, but so suddenly it had disappeared with nothing but Potter's fleeting, boy-like grin. "I'd like to ask you something, Potter. Answer me honestly."

He nodded.

"Your friends…what do you gain from them?"

Apart from being startled, Potter paused and appeared to give this significant thought. "Isn't friendship itself…like gaining?"

Tom lifted his eyes toward the ceiling. "No, it isn't. Friendship is an abstract, you cannot steal it nor take it away. It is a state of bond. It is something you restore at will provided there is benefit. I should rephrase the question, then: what do they offer you that such a serious thing as trust can be compromised for their company?"

Potter tilted his head in confusion. "Now I don't know at all what you mean."

Of course, he would have to patient. It would be difficult for just about anyone to understand, but he knew somewhere behind the social brainwashing plaguing the boy-hero, Potter was insightful toward such things and Tom could feel free to take the time to explain them. "Within a minute, you were able to forgive your friends of the wrong they did you. I assume you had some sensible reason for doing so."

"Well…" The other boy was looking at him intently with that familiar puzzled and thoughtful expression. "It was a misunderstanding, right? I thought they thought I was the Heir, but it was never like that. They were worried about what other people would think."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "I see how it is. However, if you thought they _had_ wronged you, if they didn't trust you…"

"I'd feel bad about it," broke in Potter abruptly, defensively. "But I'd understand and I'd leave them alone."

* * *

The weather that Christmas was horrible. The winds from beyond the Forbidden Forest swept over the trees blowing ice-like rain against the windows of the school. Making it from the school to the train station seemed such a daunting task due to the cold.

However, despite the horrible weather at Hogwarts, London was ten times the worse. Sleet cascaded from the smoggy grey above the city. It was with relief that Tom stepped through the old wooden doors of The Leaky Cauldron.

"So yer did show, did yer?"

Tom looked away from the strange Barman as he set his bag on the counter. "I said I would in my letter, didn't I?" he returned curtly.

"Aye," the Barman muttered, seemingly looking at Tom in a shrewd manner. "Well, best yer get settled so yer can git to work by the mornin'."

"Yes," was Tom's reply.

It was more than likely that motivation for progress put Tom in a position to take on this strange new responsibility. It was low work and unbelievably demeaning, but Tom found the rhythms of dish-scraping, fire-stoking, and floor-scrubbing to hold a definitive order where chaos had seemed to grab hold of his life from that time at Hogwarts.

Of course, Tom was barely given the opportunity to regret this decision with the essential benefits that came with it. He was given a room to himself near the wine cellar where it was warm, he was hardly a hearty eater and this allowed the Barman to offer him a bit extra in pay once Yule arrived.

Mr. Malfoy visited often, however the most informative visit was the first day. The Barman had asked Tom in his usual gruff, but polite tone to bring a bottle up to one of the private meeting rooms. Tom obliged.

He was quite startled when he opened the door to find Mr. Malfoy seated in one of the faded velvet armchairs facing the window. The older man's profile seemed to synchronise with the icy sleet outside; his nacreous features stern with thought in that short moment before he turned at the sound of the door opening. Those gelid grey eyes narrowed at the sight of Tom, but the next moment imitated a smile.

"Of course," Mr. Malfoy began, "I was not informed that you'd left the school. I left Draco with specific instructions to pass on my letters, however…" He allowed that to trail off.

Tom frowned; it sounded too much like an accusation. "Where I am and why I'm there shouldn't really be why we discuss anything...Mr. Malfoy," he replied testily.

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up in a decided expression. "Right," he said. "Yes, of course not. To be more precise, Tom, there was much I wished to tell you regarding this year's events. Do have a seat."

Tom set the tray with the bottle on the table. "I am working just now…for the Barman here."

"Indeed. And he works for me. Naturally, once I had learned of your employment at this place, I requested that you be put at my disposal at any hour of the day. Such an arrangement provides you with ample opportunity, Tom."

"I want access to the history annals of Hogwarts," Tom demanded immediately.

The pale smile was back and the corners of Lucius Malfoy's aristocratic mouth quirked. "Surprisingly, that won't be necessary. Please, be seated and I shall tell you about certain events which took place at Hogwarts some time ago."

Tom took his seat, prepared to listen intently.

"Some years ago…_fifty_ years to be exact, the Heir was upon his first rise. His primary objective was "the cleansing" of the school. Unfortunately, under the eye of so many opposed to the ancient movement, his actions were undermined. In other words, "Here Mr. Malfoy sat forward, "things were moving much the same as they are now."

Tom frowned. "Yes, but what I would really like to know is what he intends as the end result. It seems so ineffectual to fill the school infirmary with invalids."

Mr. Malfoy supplied a very satisfied smile. "Indeed not. However, cemeteries—regardless of whether they are primarily Wizarding or a mere Muggle ones—always have more room."

"Ah," Tom murmured slowly. "That's how it is. Cleansing is elimination as the nineteen-forties defined it."

"As it has been since the rise of the first movement," replied Mr. Malfoy, nodding. "I will be honest with you, Tom. Many of those in agreement to this cause would agree that it is _your_ arrival that marks the final and victorious rise of this political cause."

Tom couldn't help his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "My _arrival_?"

"Of course. As I once said to you-

"My parents…do you know about them?" Tom demanded suddenly. "You talk so much about me as if there's some secret you want to tell me, but then the next moment you seem to decide not to tell me. You should understand when I say that I've become more and more _frustrated_ with our conversations."

"Apologies. I never had any intention of being cryptic with you. However, there is information that is still unclear to me at this time. I feel the best person to answer your questions is yourself. You will learn more about yourself at a surprising rate just from your own investigation."

It didn't matter; Tom hadn't been expecting much of an answer anyway. He nodded, eyes never leaving the older wizard's. "All right, it doesn't matter now. I have more to ask you anyway."

"Good. Feel free to ask me anything."

"The last time the Heir was working, did he manage to cleanse the school?"

"He managed to put a significant dent in the school's reputation for welcoming those of impure descent."

"OK, but do you say that to mean he killed hundreds of Muggleborn students or that he only managed to scare the Muggleborn population of the school."

"Very aptly put, Tom. As there is today, there were many obstacles in the way of the movement's course. Particularly those who make it their business to meddle in matters out of their control," the older man returned, his mouth set in a bitter line causing Tom to realise precisely what he was saying.

"_Dumbledore_," Tom murmured quietly. "He was there the last time as well. He _knows_ who the Heir is."

Mr. Malfoy's face lit up. "Ah, but that is incorrect. Think for a moment, Tom. If you were the Heir, and you knew evidence was closing in on you. How might you go about relieving this pressure?"

He barely needed to take a moment's pause to think before he replied, "I'd find someone; someone whom they'd all be willing to accept is the Heir and I would work hard to place convincing evidence to support my claim."

"_Precisely_," Mr. Malfoy beamed at him.

Tom hesitated. "Do you mean to say that there was a culprit found last time, but it was not the actual Heir?"

"I mean just precisely that."

"Then…_who_-"

"Ah, if only it could be that simple, Tom. There is much about the Heir that mirrors you. Your only option at this time is to find him, and thereby answer these questions, and I've observed how it is you think. I believe that you do not need much help in uncovering the truth in this situation. What you must do instead at this time in order to ensure your successful victory, you must accrue the most loyal followers, and I can assure you that my son will be among the most loyal."

"Followers," Tom murmured. He thought about Neville, whom he knew would follow him to hell if he wished it; he hesitated on the thought of Draco as the brat was spineless and useless at times. He liked the idea of accruing followers throughout the school from different houses and different years. It would be a brilliant network.

He glanced at Mr. Malfoy who chose that moment to appear severely impassive.

* * *

The evening of Christmas day, Tom had received three letters. The first was from Neville. It started off mainly as a greeting, but flowed into a convoluted mess of estimates, numbers, and confused ramblings over the digestible content of esters within a potion. It was clear the boy had become one hundred percent devoted to his self-imposed mission of healing the Malfoy's offspring. Tom found such an indebted motivation for action completely beyond him.

The second was from Ginevra. It was a long letter. Something chatty and simpering along the lines of particular gifts she hadn't been given that year though she'd explicitly had asked for them.

It was the third that truly caught his attention. The large spidery scrawl at the end saying, "Harry" made him scan to the beginning.

**Tom,**

**Happy Christmas! The plan you said wouldn't work ended up working after all. Must be Hermione's luck except she got turned into a cat. (Don't ask.) We had a chance to talk to Malfoy and I got a chance to say I told you so to both of them since, like you said, Malfoy's not the Heir. Of course I'm not just writing to tell you that, but I sort of had a question. You see, Malfoy said something that I had to tell Ron couldn't be true. He said you were meeting with his dad all the time, talking about how to take Dumbledore down. I don't think you are, but I just thought it's better if I tell you that Malfoy's spreading that around. I didn't think you'd like that. Hope your holidays are OK. I'll talk to you later.**

**-Harry**

Tom's first instinct had been to curl the parchment up in his fist and throw it into the fireplace, but he felt that would only be like procrastination. It was best to deal with the issue right away. So, out of all the letters he'd received that day, he replied to only one.

He wrote:

**_As much as it's amusing comfort that you've concern for my reputation, there is little need. You're a societal idiot sometimes, Potter. Quit paying so much homage to principles you don't believe in. _**

****He left it at that and sent it with the Bar owl. He felt that Potter's questioning things at such a time was more trouble than necessary. He was quite right for a few hours after he'd sent the owl, it returned with a new letter attached to its leg.

**Does that mean that what Malfoy said was true?**

Tom couldn't take it; he had to reply.

**_You speak as if there is consequence to be faced from your knowing of my involvement in this trivial thing._**

Tom knew he was supposed to go downstairs to the main room and collect the copies of the Daily Prophet for the guests, but he found himself shirking his chores for the evening in wait for Potter's reply, which came mere hours later.

**It's not about that. Dumbledore's really powerful. Do you think you or Malfoy's dad could do something like that alone? Plus, Dumbledore knows what he's doing. A lot of people trust him and I know maybe he's making a mistake by thinking you're the one who's been doing the attacks, but you don't want to get mixed up with the Malfoys. Ron's dad's in the Ministry and he knows how Malfoy's dad works. He bribes people to give him what he wants and hates Muggles and anything that has to do with them. I'm worried Just don't get involved and come back to school where we can figure this out together.**

It seemed to be a letter with an intent to settle the issue or if anything, stop the argument, but Tom found the whole discussion to be fantastically disconcerting. What did Potter really hope to accomplish by lecturing him in this way. What hold did the other boy think he had over him? Tom folded the scrap parchment and slipped into his pocket with the others as he turned to make his way back downstairs.

However, the ordeal had given him an idea. The words, "do you think you could do something like that alone?" had stood out on the page as if they'd been scratched out in red ink. He knew that, at _some_ point, he would have been able accomplish such a feat by his own ingenuity, but certainly not anytime soon. After all, he was willing to admit that the old man was a seasoned expert and had many accomplishments to speak of; those of which would cause Tom to pale in comparison all too quickly. Mr. Malfoy had been right; he must find some way to accrue a set of followers or even supporters. With only Neville at his disposal, his movements would be little and effect very minor changes. He _had_ to think of the right people to deal with, people whom he could offer something for which they would offer their loyal support.

It only occurred to him when he was placing the letters he'd received that day in his bag.

He saw Ginevra's slanted, girl-like print across the folded page in his hand. He remembered how she had all too quickly mastered a spell that had taken Neville months to remember correctly. He recalled the vicious and deliberate way she had sought to make use of his acquaintance. She was a cunning thing, and not without merit. Of course, that would mean promising her what was an inestimable trade. She was enamoured with The Boy Who Lived, and seemed about ready to stop at nothing to gain his attention, even going through someone she could barely stand to be around.

He unfolded the parchment.

* * *

When he arrived back to school, it was early morning on 2 January. He hadn't been expecting to run into anyone at five-thirty in the morning, but as he entered the Common Room, he spotted Ginevra. She was scribbling away in that little black diary of hers again, curled up in the armchair next to what seemed to be a newly-lit fire. It wasn't the most opportune time, but he would have to do it as some point.

He quietly set his bag on a nearby study table, pulling a small box from it, eyeing Ginevra to ensure she didn't turn around. Almost silently, he stepped quickly up behind her so that he was standing behind the armchair, looking over her shoulder. Before he moved again, he saw her scribble out the words: **_I've been really scared recently. Something isn't right; I think it's me._**

Ignoring this for now, he opened the box he was holding and pulled out a small shining bird. He pressed the front of it, which opened a clip. Gingerly he reached down and combed back her hair, pulling it up so that one side of her heavy hair was swept back from her face. Surprised and venerably startled, Ginevra pulled away and stood up, looking at him with wide eyes.

"Wha-?" she began

Tom only leaned against the back of the armchair, looking at her with a smile. "Didn't you say in your letter you wanted one?" he inquired politely.

Seeming to only have come to the realisation that something was in her hair, she reached up and felt around for it, slowly pulling it out so that her hair fell back the way it was. She looked down at it wordlessly, her eyes still wide. "Oh," she uttered in surprise. "You bought it. I didn't think-"

Tom straightened. "Here, you didn't let me put it on you properly." He rounded the chair as she silently held it out to him, her expression nonplussed. Carefully and precisely, he set the little combs of the clip in as she held up her hair for him. Very quickly that fiery swathe was pinned up in half-pony tail. Barely noticeable, however, was the subtle sheen which had come upon it as the loose strands, which had once made her look so waifish, gathered together in tight ribbons of pretty tress.

"There," Tom said smugly. "All better."

Ginevra hesitated. She was clearly trying to read his expression, but judging from her new look of frustration, could find nothing. Finally, she touched her nearest lock and smiled tentatively. "Th-thank you."

Immediately, Tom's polite smile faded to be replaced with his fiercest look of scorn. "No," he snapped. "Not thank you, Ginevra. Saying thank you is the farcical manner by which you might _pretend _that all is even and restored. We are out of balance now, you see?"

She looked vaguely horrified.

Tom looked away from her. He sat down on the armchair and looked at the crackling fire. "I _know_ you know what I'm talking about."

Ginevra sighed, picking up her diary where she'd dropped it earlier. "Yes, I know," she returned a little sharply, taking a seat in the loveseat next to the armchair. "Nothing's free with you, of course. That's all right, though. What I want…I think it's worth it."

Now Tom's smile was back. He looked at her with a meaningful attempt at affection. He could feel it not quite working. "The sad thing is I know exactly what you're digging around for. I couldn't possibly figure out why you'd go to so much effort, but that doesn't mean I won't help you in some way. This is, of course, provided that you're willing to pay the price."

She stared at him, her vague, brown eyes deep in thought. "Did you want to know why?" she murmured.

"Know why what?"

"Why I would do this…for him."

Tom surveyed her quickly. She was such a strange thing. Claiming to care so much for another person, and yet with a desire for personal progression in the underlying motivation of her actions. Tom couldn't quite decide whether or not she was a hypocrite. "All right," he said. "Why then?"

"Because I love him," she replied simply. "Everything he is and everything he's going to be."

It was a moment before Tom realised he'd been looking at her in open-mouthed silence for some time. He began to say, "What?" but chose not to, then decided that asking, "What?" might be the only course of action as he blinked in complete consternation. "What?" he demanded.

"I'm serious," she insisted. "I'd always heard stories about him when I was little. Conquering an all-powerful wizard as an _infant_… Then when I met him, finally, last year in September…he was…he was _even better._" She withdrew for a single moment into a content and dreamy silence. "I haven't told many people this, but…and I honestly think that…well…I'm the one for him. It's this _feeling _in me and you know, Tom; it's so _possible_."

Tom was smiling. Not with any forced kindness, but with a distinct satirical edge. "It's also possible that you might be mad, you know. But no one in this room right now is casting that judgement. You're free to delude yourself as you please. Now, I've been at some research about magical vows, and I think I've found just the one for our exchange."

She broke from her reverie instantly. "Vows? What do you mean?"

"I mean that I hardly trust you, and that's because I haven't been kind enough for you to trust me. That is all right. We're going to do a vow so that betrayal is not an issue here."

Now she seemed quite alarmed. "But don't those usually end in…death?"

He frowned. "Don't be stupid. I'd never deal in my own death so casually. It's just one that ensures that you keep your end of the deal as long as I help you achieve your goal."

"And if not?"

"Then you'll no longer feel a natural obligation to my end," he returned matter-of-factly. What he had chosen not to mention was that he designed the spell so that he would not necessarily be obligated to orchestrate a _positive_ outcome, but that he would only need to make particularly well-strategized efforts in the goal's general direction. In other words, there was very little vow on his end while Ginevra would be required to do precisely what he needed her to do.

Very tentatively, she nodded, eyeing him carefully. "Fine then. We don't have to go somewhere else, do we?"

Tom withdrew his wand. "Not at all. This will only take a second."

* * *

A severe restlessness had come upon Tom. The weltering and foggy feeling of a stagnant existence drifted silently over his head as he began to attend classes again, as he moved from library to Common Room, as he sat still in the Great Hall—scribbling away meaningless notes in his notebook. How could he have it all when this was all he could work with? Was he fooling himself into believing that he would achieve what he wanted from this banal and shallow routine? Did he even know what he wanted anymore?

Immunity. Such a thing was by far the easiest answer, but the question lay in which way he might want to acquire it. Political immunity seemed such an appealing facet to life, but there was also something heaped beneath his memories; he couldn't define it well enough, but each time he would sit and think on it, the idea of death came upon him much like it had that day near the Philosopher's stone. Ah, immunity from the magic that could destroy him.

Death was a fierce subject for Tom. He could waste a whole morning speculating on the subject, which he had begun doing quite often in those days. He'd sit with Ginevra and Neville at a corner table in the Common Room as they both went about their business in fiery progression, and he would count the manner by which he might invite death, ways that it could happen unexpectedly. He was in a state of mind like that of a child during a horror film, watching the worst parts because the thrill of fear is unfamiliar.

He knew it was ridiculous. He knew it was a waste of time. He also knew he would be able to pull himself from the stupor easily enough. Weeks passed and they were at the close of January. Tom decided to distract himself…

It was a Friday evening in the library and Neville had gone to the front to do his customary book exchange as he juggled both his school work and his newfound hobby all at once. Tom looked up from his book to eye Ginevra seated across from him. She had her hand on her chin as she scribbled out on a little piece of decorated parchment. Frustration emanated from her side of the table.

"What are you doing?"

She jumped. It seemed he had sunk so far into his personal reverie that neither she nor Neville expected his address. "Oh…erm…just writing something…for-" She broke off as Tom snatched the parchment from her.

He read aloud. "What's this? 'His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled-'…you must be _joking_, Ginevra."

She shrugged and made some form of noncommittal noise.

"Don't tell me this is for…_him_?"

She acquired an irritable look. "Well, with Valentine's coming. I thought I'd just send him something."

"As per our agreement, I am required to tell you _now_ that if you send this, it is guaranteed to embarrass you for the rest of your existence. _Even_ if we somehow manage to get him to notice you, this atrocity will follow you there."

Ginevra did a funny thing just then. She cast an apprehensive look to her diary, as if in fear of it, as if in fear of a tangible reaction from it. It sat there at her elbow, emanating nothing but ambiguity as Tom focussed his own gaze there upon it. "Then what do _you _think I should do?" she whispered, turning her head to him as if excluding someone else from the conversation.

"First of all, no boy like Potter is interested in a girl's poetry or whatever it is you would call this. You want to give him something he can use; something he can take with him." Tom held up the small shred of parchment. "This can be thrown away, lost, or mocked if anything,"

A protracted silence followed. Ginevra looked down at her fingers on the table. "What would he take with him? What can't be thrown away?"

Tom crushed the paper in his fist. "Magic," he muttered, tossing the ball of parchment back at her. Without a further word, Tom reached into the side pocket of his book bag and unearthed his own folded piece of notepaper. He had not spared this a glance since that day in the summer. Potter's birthday; the sunny day the other boy had deserted him, the day he still refused to admit he had waited for so long. He gingerly unfolded the side of the paper and laid it flat on the furnished wooden table.

Ginevra sat up and leaned forward over the table to read the words on it. "_Luminus Caecus_. What's that?"

"A blinding light; anything hit with this hybrid will be blinded; it's something powerful enough that Potter could probably face his arch nemesis, blind him, and carry the upper hand easily."

"Hybrid?"

Tom smiled with not a little pride. "My own invention; it's a mix of any charm, hex, or curse to make something altogether incredible."

She laughed a little excitedly. "Oh, he'll love this."

Tom pretended the shrug he gave her didn't actually cause in him something foreboding. "Just send it to him. Whoever gave you the idea to send poetry must not have really cared for your success."

He watched her send a worried look at the diary again.

"Tell me," he said simply and her fearful honey-brown eyes squinted against his demand.

"I'm…afraid, Tom. I think…there's something wrong…with me," she whispered, her head bent low over the table.

He looked at her for quite a period of time. She'd been afraid since he'd met her. Insecurity, he'd identified it as. Now she seemed to shudder with the weight of it, and he found it, as he found many things about her, inexplicable. He looked away again, reaching into his bag for a couple textbooks. "Whatever's making you afraid, get rid of it."

* * *

During the advent of February, the attacks had completely ceased. A new storm of hope seemed to have flooded the castle. Students walked up and down the corridors no longer fearful of oncoming danger, the teachers were no longer eyeing the tables of students suspiciously during meals, and it had all turned into something of a weak laughing matter.

Of course all of this did not even touch Tom. It mainly served to curb whatever state of progression he felt he might have been able to achieve through this ongoing disaster. The peace mocked him in every way even as Neville's ridiculousness increased by three meters and Ginevra's concentration on his "little lessons" became less out of fear, but more out of application. He hadn't spoken to Potter much since he'd arrived back, and Potter seemed duly distracted by other matters as he didn't seek out Tom's company as ardently as he had once.

Tom didn't care. He wanted something to happen, so he could be the one to stop it, so that all these questions nagging at him would either be obliterated or completely answered.

It was on Valentine's, however, when the matter came to a severe and shocking head.

The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had taken it upon himself to celebrate the day in all enthusiasm. The Great Hall was decked with an awe-inspiring array of pinks, whites, and reds. Neville, who had come to be usually distracted, appeared not to notice as a surprising onslaught of cards found their way into his book bag. Tom received a surprising number at the Great Hall during lunch, those of which he stared at in complete consternation, wondering how in heaven anyone could be seized with the desire to put the words, "_The glacial purple eyed, raven head boy_" in description of him. He lifted a spoon and subtly studied his reflection.

Brushing a little basket of heart-shaped biscuits aside, Neville leaned over. "I have to find a way to Knockturn Alley this summer. Some of these Ancient residents of Ur passed down their tablets of healing to future generations. Record has it that it was last seen in one of the shops there. I couldn't imagine why; it's not _really_ a Dark Arts object, is it?"

Tom set down the spoon and sighed in exasperation. "Must you _really_ waste all this time on that?"

Neville paused, looking down at his notes for a moment. "You know, before…it used to be all about fixing what I did, but it's all so interesting, Tom. You'd never guessed what I've learned just from practicing on small animals."

Tom took note of this. "You're mad, Neville." This newfound attribute to the boy was amusing, still, and it all made him smile.

Neville smirked back, turning back to his books.

It was then that Ginevra sat down in her usual place across from them, looking ashen. She set down her book bag on the bench beside her and fixed Tom with an aggravatingly fearful look. "I don't think I can do it," she breathed.

"I'm surprised you think you can do anything," Neville remarked, not looking up. He never missed a moment, Tom thought.

"What are you on about?" Tom demanded irritably.

Almost at the point of hysterical nerves, she reached out for the basket of biscuits and started on them. "I can't just, you know, walk up to him and hand him the paper. What'll people _think_?"

Tom sighed. Why did all the people he had surrounded himself with have such ridiculous and trivial problems? "You'll give it to him or I'll do it for you."

When she looked hopeful at this, he backtracked. "Of course that means I'll take credit for the spell."

She shook her head, looking around, as she munched quietly on the biscuits, with hunted eyes. "Oh, what do I _do_? Because Ron might be there, and he'll be _awful_ about it."

If Tom had been irritable before, he was now annoyed. "Listen, you imbecilic, _weak_ human being; if you claim to want something this badly, why are you so afraid to take it?"

She cringed. It was just then that one of those unbelievable dwarves waddled past, tossing another card in front of Neville. He pushed it off his book and went to write something down. Tom gave Ginevra a significant look and she jumped in realisation. "Oh," she murmured, getting up to chase after the infantile figure.

Such was Tom's mood that afternoon that he decided to skip Charms and stay in the Common Room. As classes ended, more and more of the students drifted in, all in good humour about the nature of the day. Neville joined him much later, pausing to toss two pink letters in the bin. "This is such a strange day," he remarked, pulling out his Potions homework.

"Indeed," Tom returned darkly, reviewing his Transfiguration essay.

By around eight that evening, the Common Room had become quite noisy.

"Oi, Harry! What was in that Valentine?" one of those horrible twins called from across the room.

Tom observed Potter passing without a word, determinedly making his way to the dorm. Probably to test out that spell, Tom thought a little smugly.

About an hour or so later, Ginevra burst through the portrait hole. She looked wildly around the Common Room until she spotted Tom. She was stark white, her freckles barely visible as she bent down near him. Tom inclined his head to listen as she whispered to him frantically. "Harry has it! He has my diary, Tom! Oh, you have to get it from him!"

He sat back indifferently. "How on _earth_ did he get it from you? Did you drop it?"

"Not exactly. I…two weeks ago, after our talk, I threw it away. I didn't think he'd go where I threw it; I didn't think anyone would go there! He has it now, Tom; he'll figure out how it works and-oh gosh- he'll _know. _He'll get _everything_! All the things I told it, the vow, and…Tom, _please_."

He could feel the twins watching him from where they'd signalled Ron Weasley. All of them were staring at Ginevra suspiciously from her begging position beside his chair. Even Neville had looked up from his books, his eyes narrowed at her.

"Neville, make sure no one follows. I'll go and get it," Tom finally conceded, standing up.

There was an odd feeling as Tom made his way up those winding steps. It was a palpable presence, and he associated it with the feeling he kept getting from Ginevra, and even more the feeling from Potter on some off days. Familiarity and frustration. Here, however, it was as heavy as dark smoke and tangy in his mouth. He could feel his limbs begin to shake as he approached the door. A million and a half things jumped down on him from the four corners of his brain; half-baked memories and they all touched his senses. He was approaching something he knew, something he'd approached before.

As sensible as he could be most times, Tom felt he could believe his emotions right then. He felt the draw of power, but couldn't rationalise it. He opened the boy's dormitory door.

The room was empty.

He looked to Potter's four-poster. The black diary lay open on the red coverlet, seemingly flung there. Tom carefully approached, knowing quite instantly that something wasn't right. He'd only just rested his hand on one of the poles of the four-poster when the pages began to flip. The image before him seemed to bubble and broil and he stepped back, alarmed. In a massive explosion of light, Tom felt himself flung back on his own bed.

It was only as he opened his eyes gingerly, that he felt the impact of Potter's form being flung down from somewhere, the diary jumping up and landing on the other boy's stomach.

Tom stared at him.

Potter sat up from his splayed position on his bed, panting like he'd run a marathon. He looked up and around until he spotted Tom in a parallel on his own bed. He sat up, sweating and shaking.

"What-?" began Tom, sitting up as well.

"I think…the person who stopped the Heir last time…I'm pretty sure…" Potter gasped for air. "I think it was your father, Tom."

* * *

The room ceased to have a bottom. Tom felt everything tilt and swarm into the massive black hole in his middle. He could feel himself standing, but he couldn't feel the floor beneath his shoes. "What?" he murmured. "What are you saying?"

Potter had now stood as well, his green eyes still wide with the realisation he'd come to. "I saw him, Tom. You must've been named after him; he looked just _like_ you! He stopped it…it's all…" Potter grabbed the black book and held it out to Tom. "…all in here. He must have kept his memories or something in here, but he's in there; he spoke to me and took me back to that time when…when…when he caught…th-the person."

While Tom had sat down again, the diary in his hand in front of him, Potter had lapsed into a subdued silence. His words still rang in their repetitive and gasping tone. _Father_. Tom didn't know what to do with this information. It was that rapture he could've felt when he stepped outside himself, but instead a cold sense of confusion started suffocating his mind, disallowing him the ability to think.

Something nagged at him amidst all this, though. It was a little thought, a little question that cropped up as he looked down at the little black book. He took several moments, but he rifled through his thoughts as quickly as he could, ignoring Potter's stare. Why did Ginevra's diary have his father in it?

Before anything else, he must answer this one question. Standing up once more—he faltered a little-- he refused Potter's gesture of help as he moved quickly and quietly to the door.

Ginevra was sitting there, biting on one of his quills nervously. When she saw him descending the stairs, she immediately looked to his hands. Once she spotted the diary, she beamed and rose to greet him. He didn't return the endearment. His tone was cold. "Come with me," he said, heading for the portrait hole.

He led her down through the hallways and her step behind him was uncharacteristically silent. She didn't question when he opened the door to their Charms classroom that would be empty according to schedule. Once he closed the door, he rounded on her.

"This diary, where did you buy it?"

She froze, the mystified smile on her face dropping instantly. "W-why?" she gasped.

He raised it to her eye-level. "Simple question!" he spat. "Answer it!"

She jumped. "I don't know," she whispered.

No, he didn't have the patience for any of that sort of thing. He was going to _make _her tell him. He pulled his wand out. "Where did you get it, Ginevra?"

She'd been clever enough to bring her own wand with her, but even she knew it would do her little good against him. "I said I don't _know_," she cried. "I found it in my books at the beginning of the year. It was just there. When I realised it was just a blank diary, I just wrote in it!"

He lowered his wand a fraction. "And did it write back to you?"

She hardly seemed surprised with the question. "Yes."

"Who was he?"

"What?"

"_Did he tell you who he was_?"

She had become silent, staring at him.

"_Visveres!_" he hissed. He stepped forward as she toppled, "Well?"

She had landed against one of the chairs; she laid there, a wounded bird, flinching. "I…"

He raised his wand again. "Do I have to do it again?" he snapped, completely at the end of his tether.

Ginevra raised her eyes slowly to his, an earnest look of imploring mixed in with her fearful expression. "I thought it was you," she whispered.

Tom quickly bent down beside her, lowering his wand. "You…thought it was me?" he demanded incredulously.

A blush rose from her ears to her cheeks, now visible with her hair pulled back. "Well, it had to be. I mean, except that he's says he's sixteen years old. He talks just like you, and he told me that at some point I wouldn't have to talk to him through the diary, someday he could help me… face to face. And I remembered how you were the first person I met in Diagon Alley, how you kept telling me to get over all the things I was afraid of. I _thought they were clues!_ It was why I never mentioned you in my writing. I thought you had picked me like you'd picked Neville. I asked Neville; it seemed to all fit. But then…you started sounding different, saying different things than him and you even…" she trailed off embarrassedly for a moment. "…you even told me to get rid of it. I thought maybe your spell on it had stopped working and it was making me afraid, afraid that it was changing me…in _bad _ways."

He stared at her, now in true disbelief. She sat up, her knees drawn up looking up at him bent over her. "What, _exactly_, do you think I am?" he inquired a bit lightly, curiously.

Her gaze didn't waver. "I think you're the only one who understands me, Tom."

In his mind, the opposite was true. Understanding her would take hours of ill-used time; time he wasn't willing to sacrifice at present. It was such a weak sentiment she was placing upon him and he couldn't yet decide whether this was beneficial at all. After all, he knew that even Neville would be unable to give himself in such reckless abandon as this little girl would. But he could deal with it later, couldn't he?

"I have to go," he muttered. He had to talk to Potter, had to find out what this character had told him, and whether he could prove it was his father. He was delaying the inevitable eclipse of emotions rising to make him crazy. Tom couldn't let go of the ideal that this had to be some mistake, but at the same time he wondered whether this wasn't what he really wanted.

* * *

Tom had barely even taken a step toward the Gryffindor Common Room when Potter rounded the corner at the end of the hall. He saw Tom and stopped dead. Tom couldn't see his expression from that far, but he could feel some type of intensity from whatever emotion was wafting over Potter's magic aura. The boy-hero trotted towards him, those eyes behind spectacles bright with concern.

Tom looked down at the diary in his hand. "You say he's in here?"

"You're the splitting image of each other. You weren't alive fifty years ago. It has to be _some_ kind of ancestor, and anyway, his name is Tom too. His name is on the cover."

_T.M. Riddle _stood out in faded gold on the cover. "Riddle?" Tom whispered, still gazing down at the book. Was it really all this possible? The idea of finding his father out of the blue like this seemed all too convenient. And could this, the missing edge of his identity inscribed in gold on this insignificant little diary, be his surname? He was in a state of ambivalence, unsure whether to feel exultation or disappointment. Tom was soon thinking back to his dream only a summer ago. The man who was supposedly his father looking at him in disgust; he'd been Muggle-like, aristocratic, and foolish. Tom had _wanted_ to kill the man deep down. How did he feel now?

His thoughts scattered as he felt a hand brush his own. Looking up, he saw Potter standing there looking at him in significant empathy. He'd caught at Tom's arm with a vague and distracting ardency. "There's something else I need to show you," he was saying.

Tom followed him to what turned out to be the trophy room. He immediately freed his arm from Potter's grasp and walked toward the rows of immense glass cases filled with golden plaques and trophies. "What is this? Why've you brought me here?"

Potter moved toward a cabinet at the far end. "Here." He gestured toward the large burnished gold shield leaning against the back. "It's an Award for Special Services, then here…" he walked toward the next case of awards. "There's a list of Head Boys from 1930 to 1950, and he's here in 1943, then over here…"

Tom followed Potter as he went at last to one of the main cabinets. Tom read it first. "'_For displaying remarkable talent and immense creativity within the field of Charms and Curses, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry bequeaths this award for Magical Merit to Mr. Tom M. Riddle in this year of his graduation, 1944'_ This is him?" Tom murmured at the other boy.

"Yes, that's him."

Tom reached out and let his fingers brush the glass of the cabinet. There had been something, yes, _something_ above all this, something he knew despite his incredulity at the situation. He knew he had had some connection to whatever happened fifty years ago, but he had never allowed himself the luxury to guess at something like this because then that would mean he was tied to some legacy, that he wasn't a blank slate about to make his way in the world. This meant that things were ten times more complicated because as he thought the name _Riddle_ in all seriousness, he _knew_ that whomever it was that Potter or Ginevra had been speaking to, must be alive to answer the questions Tom didn't want to ask.

No.

He was being ridiculous. Why must this be something he would rest his mind on? Why did he give into the slavery of angst on such an occasion; it was time to deliberate.

"I thought you might want some time to talk with him," Potter was saying. He was holding out his quill with that same unbelievable expression of empathetic graciousness.

Tom shook his head. "You thought wrong. So we know the man might be my father, but that has little relevance to the outcome of this mystery. There's little I can do by speaking to a sixteen year old who has neither the knowledge nor the intention of bringing me into this world."

Potter paused. "I never mentioned he was sixteen, did I?"

Tom observed a space above Potter's head. "You must've. I wouldn't have known otherwise."

"Right," was the uncertain reply from the other boy's direction. "Anyway, I noticed something when I was in the diary. Dumbledore was talking to him the same way you said he talks to you. He must have been suspicious of him too."

"I've noticed you seem to be avoiding the topic of _who_ the Heir was back then."

The boy-hero froze. He'd been foolish enough to think he could avoid the subject entirely, leave Tom in the dark. "Now look here," Potter began, his brow furrowed. "People make mistakes sometimes, and some people's mistakes are bigger. I don't think the person who was caught last time was the Heir, maybe just someone who thought the whole thing about the creature in the Chamber of Secrets was all rumour, someone who cared a little more about the creature than the people who might get hurt. He probably didn't think anything would happen."

Tom looked at the other boy with faint disbelief. "You're blathering about something, and I don't care what it is, just tell me who it was."

Potter stepped toward him, his bright eyes imploring. "Tom, I need you to make a promise…"

"What?"

"A _promise_," he insisted obstinately. "You promise not to do _anything_. I know the school is important to you; you proved that last year, but this person didn't mean to hurt anyone. Even he…your _father_ knew that."

Disdain was filtering its way up, and Tom didn't care to listen to any such nonsense anymore. "As far as I can remember, I've never made a promise to anyone based on such a shallow incentive. What makes this different?"

The other boy paused, visibly troubled. "Isn't it enough that I'd do the same for you?"

Tom thought on this. Such a promise _could_ work to his benefit after all. "Yes, I suppose it is. And you _will _do the same for me quite soon, I think. All right, I promise; no action will be taken against this person."

He didn't expect Potter to look so satisfied at those words. "Good, then. It looks like Riddle…_thought_ Hagrid was the Heir, but he's not; he _can't _be."

Tom paused. He had almost readily agreed aloud. However, his mind had retreated back to a particular conversation he'd had during the holidays. _I'd find someone; someone whom they'd all be willing to accept is the Heir and I would work hard to place convincing evidence to support my claim_. And Lucius' reply then: _There is much about the Heir that mirrors you_. He'd known it, then. Secretly and deeply, he'd known it. The moment that Potter had sat up from the bed and gasped out the truth, Tom had felt it coming, that grain of frightening, but fulfilling truth. This stranger, fifty years ago, had mirrored Tom's movements, and now Dumbledore could see it, and he _knew_ precisely who the Heir had been. When Tom had walked into the school, what had been the Headmaster's best way to react? But Tom was _not_ attacking anyone, really. It was a conundrum, indeed.

Tom glanced at Potter, who was watching him expectantly. Potter could not know his thoughts, and could never know. He had to mislead him. "Well, we both know this may be true. However, it doesn't cancel out his involvement. Much like you said earlier, perhaps the groundskeeper saw the monster as something benign and kept it in good health."

"Right," Potter replied slowly.

Tom knew exactly what he had to do next, but he was wary of what Potter's own course of action would be. "So…what will you do?"

The other boy perched on the edge of a low cabinet, removing his glasses and rubbing them absently against his sleeve. The act made him look two times more intelligent. His words did the contrary. "I reckon since the attacks stopped, we might not _need_ to do anything."

For a still moment, Tom was torn between berating Potter for his uncharacteristic complacency and leaving things as they were for _his_ benefit. His jaw tightened as he murmured, "Quite so."

Potter grinned and hopped down from his spot on the cabinet. "We should go; I think it's Snape's turn to patrol tonight."

Tom made for the door without response. He was distracted; he had to get to the owlery tonight somehow without detection. Maybe if he pretended to go to bed, then left after he was certain Potter and the others were sound asleep…

"Oh, and Tom?"

He turned; Potter was holding a familiar bit of notepaper with a sheepish grin on his face. "Thanks, you know, for the spell. Can't wait to use it."

Tom would later wonder to himself why he hadn't bothered to correct him.

* * *

Tom had written a quick, urgent note to Mr. Malfoy the night before, and was currently waiting for his reply as he sat at breakfast the following morning. Neville and Ginevra were arguing about something inconsequential having to do with Ginevra's insistence on borrowing his First-Year notes and failing to return them.

"I don't see why you still need them, Neville; you're in Second Year now, aren't you?"

"It's the principle of the thing, Ginny. Anyway, if Tom had lent them to you, you wouldn't have been so careless with them."

"Well, he's Tom, isn't he?" she snapped, standing up and collecting her bag.

"Where're you going?" Neville exclaimed incredulously.

"To class! It's difficult enough reading ahead when you're here acting like a real _git_."

She flounced off. Tom looked curiously at the high windows where the owls were expected. He barely noticed Neville looking at him until he heard an impatient sound of irritation from Neville's end.

"What is it?" he asked listlessly.

The tops of Neville's cheeks were pink with irritation. "You know what I _really_ don't like about her?"

Tom shrugged, eyes trailing back to the high windows.

"She's the perfect example of those shallow little girls who just _use_ other people to get where they want, but then she doesn't even know what she wants. She says she's _crazy_ about The Boy Who Lived, but then she goes on about you all the time, then asks me for help when it pleases her! I hate that!"

Tom gave Neville a side-long look. "Now really, Neville," he sighed. "You and I both know there's little to be gained in blaming the user when the one being _used_ is the truly repulsive being."

Neville stopped short, looking hatefully at the door where Ginevra had made her exit. "Well, she won't use _me_."

"Not so long as you're _my _friend," Tom returned with a little smile. Neville seemed rather pleased at that, and turned contentedly back to his books.

It was late afternoon in the Common Room when the letter arrived. It was frustratingly brief.

**_ I will make an appearance at the school quite soon. Bear with your questions for now. We're about to deal with the meddler._**

As much as the thought of Dumbledore being crippled pleased Tom, he was still irritated at Mr. Malfoy. He hated to be put into second priority especially when he was eager for answers. Especially when he was on the cusp of his truth, of the true answer to his existence.

"Tom?"

Tom turned at the voice near his shoulder. Ginevra had come back from lessons; she looked slightly mollified from this morning, but she didn't look at Neville who kept sending scathing glances her way.

"Yes?"

She leaned on his shoulder and lowered her voice. "D-do you think I could have it back?"

"What back?"

"Th-the diary. I…kind of need it."

He stared at her for a moment. "No, you don't," he returned matter-of-factly. While Tom had forborne from opening the pages of that diary, he still carried it with him. He refused to think on what was keeping him from communicating with this being, and just what he would ask him when he did. In truth, it felt weak to give in to that curiosity eating away at him and just write a few words of introduction or _something_. At this juncture, he could only look down at its leather spine and wonder if the dreams he kept having had anything to do with it. He would wait to speak with Mr. Malfoy before he allowed himself such a weak-willed indulgence.

"But…"

"Absolutely not."

"Well, it's mine, Tom. If I could just have it for a bit; he listens a little more than you have the time to and…"

"_No_."

"_Please_."

Tom glared at her in exasperation. "Why are we discussing this? I said no."

She gave him a forlorn look before she turned away to the girl's dormitory.

Too often had Tom underestimated the people around him, and too often did this backfire on him. Months passed and he received no further word from Mr. Malfoy. He was irritated to see Potter seemed to have forgotten about the issue completely as the other boy concentrated on the upcoming Quidditch match, leaving early for training and arriving late in the evening, sopping wet from the April rains.

Easter holidays passed.

It happened on a Saturday afternoon. Neville had gone ahead of him from the library to have a bit of nap before his evening study session, and Tom remembered that he'd left the diary in the dorm room at which he promptly decided it was better to keep it on him.

He'd barely made it up the stairs when Neville came running down. He spotted Tom and his look was alarmed. "Tom, someone's been in the dorm, and it seems they were searching for something. Your things…" He trailed off as Tom quickly loped up the stairs ahead of him.

It was as he feared. His trunk had been completely ransacked, his books and clothes strewn everywhere. Tom's first reaction was to search for the diary where he'd put it under his pillow. The bed spread had of course been pulled away from the mattress and remained bare. Next, Tom was extremely vexed. He turned on Neville. "Bring _Ginevra _outside beside the school entrance; I'll deal with her there," he hissed. Neville slunk away just as Potter walked in, broomstick in hand.

"What happened?"

Tom didn't reply. He pulled out his wand and began levitating his things back into the trunk. _How dare she?_ _What suicidal stupidity had inspired such an act? Oh, she would _pay!

Potter gingerly stepped over the mess toward Tom, wary of the cold furious look on his face. "The diary," he murmured suddenly. "Where is it?"

Tom still didn't answer; he turned on his bedspread and replaced it with another levitation spell. Soon Potter reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "Where's the diary?" he demanded quietly, those eyes fixed fiercely on him. It was right then that Tom's rage took a new turn on Potter, but right before he could say a word, that old pain lashed across his forehead and both of them stumbled back from each other as if lightning had forged their contact.

"What?" Potter gasped, hand over his face. "This again?"

Tom swallowed his cry against the sharp pain.

The other two boys in their dorm and Ron Weasley walked in just then. They looked warily at Tom who was just as pale as Potter right then.

"Harry mate, what happened?"

Dean Thomas swore loudly.

"Someone's been in here, searching through Tom's things," Potter said finally, straightening up.

Weasley was looking significantly at Tom's still strewn about clothing. "Looking for something, right?" he muttered at Potter.

"The diary," Potter mouthed back at him.

Tom finished his clean up and promptly exited. He would get it back immediately, and Ginevra would never think of doing such a thing again once he was through with her.

Assuredly, Neville was there waiting with Ginevra by the arm. Ginevra looked at him with a strange fire-filled gaze. This only served to anger him further. He pulled out his wand.

"Explain yourself, and I might just listen."

"I don't have anything to explain," she snapped.

"Where's the diary?" he demanded.

"I don't know!"

"Don't you _dare_ lie about it. I told you '_no'_, and yet still…"

"I'm telling you I _didn't do it_."

He stepped very close to her; if she was lying, he would know it, he _had_ to know it. "Didn't you? You're the only one who knows about it."

It was as if her face had been wiped clean of expression as Tom looked deep into her; it was if she had become another type of girl as she stared at him evenly, her brown eyes dark as the forest behind them. "I did _nothing_," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his. "And I do not have the diary."

Since the day he'd met her, her expressions had been written all over her face, but in that small moment as she went still in Neville's hold, her eyes blank like that, Tom couldn't read a thing. He had only to believe her, and wonder forebodingly just _who _had taken the diary and _why_.

* * *

The school had become too complacent. No one was ready, and Tom would later admit that he had been the least ready for it. He hadn't even known what had happened that afternoon. The rest of the school had gone off for the Quidditch match, and he was debating about it silently. It was just as he stood at the exit of the library that he heard it, loud as ever.

_"Kill them this time. Rip, tear…I smell them…_"

Instinctively, he followed the sound, the soft and endearing voice saying such incredibly vicious things. He passed the Entrance Hall towards the dungeons when he realised with some disbelief that he'd been walking under the voice, and not near it. It was upstairs where he'd begun.

Tom wasn't given the opportunity to move even the slightest. He'd forgotten. _The Ligatio._ It wrapped viciously this time, chaining him, pulling him to the floor this time. He felt the icy thread wind its way over his torso, pressing him to the stone. He couldn't help crying out as his insides resisted the pain.

"It seems," Dumbledore said, striding towards him, his expression pitying, "that you did not keep your end of the bargain, Tom."

The pain became more than his mind could conceive. He felt the world swirl around him before the thick wall of blackness rose up over him.

It hurt to open his eyes, but the floor beneath him was cold, and he felt a strange sense of enclosure. He was in a nondescript grey room with a bed and table, but Tom was on the floor in the corner; judging from the dampness of the ceiling, he was somewhere near the dungeons. He felt he was being stared at, and looked up to notice a strange fiery bird looking down at him curiously. _A phoenix_?

"Good to see you've woken."

Tom felt like it took a severe amount of strength in him to turn and look up at the Headmaster, who sat serenely on a high-backed chair, looking down at him.

"I apologise," the old man continued. "I had no intention of causing you such severe pain, Tom. The Ligatio is a tricky charm-- responding only to the wearer, which can mean it might react negatively where negativity and resistance co-exist. You may take your time in getting up; I can see you're in a great deal of pain."

Tom snarled as he forced himself up, his features contorting themselves against the heated knives of pain in his limbs. "Remove it, you senile old-"

"My, my," Dumbledore murmured. "It's a wonder the things young people will say during such moments. Now, to business, since I'd hate to take anymore of your time, Tom."

Having realised quite suddenly, after a quick search, that his wand was not on him, Tom stared balefully at the Headmaster.

The Headmaster acquired a sudden serious look. "I find the time for bargains and deals has come to an end. Two girls have been attacked this very afternoon, and it's become _difficult_ for me to continue to allow you such lee-way here at Hogwarts. I am now in the process of dealing with issue, but you, on the other hand, must remain where you are."

"What?" Tom demanded quietly.

"That is to say, Tom—as Headmaster—I have been given the authority to place you under…what's the term…_house_ _arrest_. Of course, in this instance, one might call it _school arrest_. Food will appear when necessary and you may conduct your studies as regular when I bring your books."

"I'm…to stay here?" Tom echoed tonelessly.

"Yes, Tom. Until things settle and I can find some _way_…" Dumbledore trailed off, looking sadly down at him. "For there must be some way to solve this without anything so drastic as magical arrest."

* * *

Being confined to that room would have driven him mad within the next week, and Tom knew this.

However, no more than six hours had passed when the wall of his little enclosure disappeared and he raised his head to see Mr. Malfoy looking down at him with visible relief. Tom couldn't even define his own feeling of relief and gratitude as Lucius handed him wand and helped him up. Another man stood, hovering nearby, behind Lucius. He was a dithering man, dressed in a colourful pinstripe cloak complete with a emerald bowler hat.

"Tom," Mr. Malfoy said composedly. "This is the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, and he's here to witness Dumbledore's treatment of one of Hogwarts' prized students."

Cornelius Fudge was staring down in consternation at Tom, who eyed the man with some suspicion. "This is…?" the man gasped.

"His name is Tom, Minister," Malfoy prodded. "I believe he looks rather familiar to you, doesn't he?"

"Well, yes….but there's been no word from him since…graduation. I…"

"He has been under such treatment for the majority of the year, Minister; surely the Ministry wouldn't condone such behaviour in this _school_."

"Oh, Merlin, Lucius…I'd never have _dreamed_ Dumbledore was capable of such…"

Tom set his jaw as he pocketed his wand. He faced the Minister with nothing short of resolution. "I should tell you now, Minister, Dumbledore has proven easily that he is no longer fit for the position he retains."

Lucius Malfoy beamed down at him with a very pale smile. "Yes, well, there's little worry of that anymore, is there? As of today, Dumbledore has been suspended by the school board."

"This is truly a _calamity_," Fudge cried. "If the Prophet hears of this…"

Tom cast a glance at Malfoy, who appeared to be waiting with some bated anticipation for Tom's reply. Of course. _This _was what he had been waiting for. The primary opportunity for that sort of immunity, and it was suddenly so simple.

"Minister Fudge," Tom broke in, politely. "I do not _mind_ keeping silent about the situation. It's just…"

Fudge rounded on him eagerly. "Yes, yes, the Ministry would be willing to offer you anything at this time."

Tom smiled, ensuring he looked pleasant as well as innocent. "Oh, but sir…I couldn't…"

"No, no. We're happy to offer you anything that would allow you to deal with all…" The Minister gestured as if to encompass the entire situation in a sweep of his hand. "…all this unpleasantness."

"I shall have to think about it, sir. Right now, I…would just like some rest."

"_Of course_," Fudge returned benignly, patting Tom on the shoulder. They both followed Lucius from the room, Fudge's hand resting in a fatherly manner on Tom's shoulder.

They had walked to the nearby town in Hogsmeade to see the Minister off and it wasn't until Fudge had left that Tom had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Malfoy.

"I know who the Heir was," Tom announced as soon as the sound of Fudge's apparating faded.

Malfoy turned to him in mild surprise. "Ah, and?"

"Tell me about Riddle. He's my father, isn't he? It's why Dumbledore has been pointing the finger at me; why he's always looked at me that way."

The spring night was rather warm. The grey in the sky had since faded. Lucius Malfoy looked out at the lights of Hogsmeade, his expression thoughtful. "As to whether he's your father is up for question, Tom. Yet, there's no question when it comes to Dumbledore's motives. If things go as planned, you needn't worry about him anymore. Indeed, Riddle was the Heir of Slytherin…"

"Was?" Tom echoed warily.

"Well, that too is questionable, isn't it? I should tell you, Tom, that this is all as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I can only hope to re-invoke old loyalties in mentoring you like this."

"Who was he?"

The older man paused in thought. Tom watched his eyes narrow in remembrance. "If there ever was a word, _wizard_, Tom; that was he."

* * *

The panic had touched Hogwarts again. Hermione Granger and another Ravenclaw Prefect girl had been attacked. Despite the fact that Lucius and the Minister had sent the groundskeeper away to the Wizarding prison, students were unable to go from class to class without a teacher escort, and all students were expected to be in their respective common rooms by six o' clock pm. And one afternoon Potter had come looking for Tom, who had chosen to disregard the new rules and retreated to the library. He was determined to find more information in the annals about any student with the name Riddle. Fifty years seemed too great a gap for his relationship with the man to be simply father-son. It had been Lucius Malfoy who had made him think about this possibility.

Potter plopped down in the seat opposite him. It took a moment when Tom looked up at him to realise that the boy-hero had fixed him with a definitive glare.

Having experienced much frustration at his unsuccessful attempts, Tom had little patience for the other boy's nonsense just then. "Now what?" he snapped when the other boy said nothing.

Potter still said nothing. His eyes were hard and staring for a long time as Tom glared back, determined not to be the one to look away. Finally the other boy broke out, his tone cold and bracing. "I saw you the other night…you were walking with Lucius Malfoy and the Minister for Magic out of the castle. You seemed…on good terms with them, I noticed."

Now Tom knew what Potter was getting at, and it only irritated him. He glared still challengingly at Potter. "And?"

"And…" Potter looked at him for a bit longer as his glare faded. "And…I believe you kept your promise," he ended lamely.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Do you really? Could've fooled me otherwise with that look."

"OK; I was a little worried, but why were you with them? What happened to you? Everyone thought you were attacked too."

"Dumbledore took special actions to ensure that I do not let loose Slytherin's beast again. I was in the dungeons."

Potter spent a moment in silent incredulity.

"You will understand if I do not share your sentiments regarding his absence," Tom added bitterly.

Potter sighed. "Well, I was there when they arrested Hagrid, and I'm still convinced they were wrong to send him to Askaban. But I don't understand Dumbledore…"

Tom shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

He hoped that would settle it.

Despite Tom's desire to figure out who had taken the diary and who the man in the diary was, it was a relief to have some silence after so much hubbub. Professor McGonagall had recently announced that exams would continue as planned, then soon after she announced that the cure for the petrifications was almost ready. This meant that the identity of the Heir would soon be apparent, and Tom's questions would be answered without his having gotten involved. This would help, he felt, as he was already on the Ministry's good list and he had much to gain from that in the near future.

He intended to use the following summer to do his own research of the matter. After all, whoever was identified as the supposed "Heir" would undoubtedly have taken the diary; Tom was quite certain about it all. Of course, that was a mistake.

Having not been too keen about Ginevra's company, Tom had kept clear of her for the most part of May and the beginning of June. He had, now and again, noticed her pallor increase, but he assumed it must have been the attack on Hermione.

"Something's going on," Neville said that afternoon as they walked from Defence Against the Dark Arts with Lockhart ahead of them. Tom glanced at him and saw Potter speaking animatedly to the idiot professor with Weasley in tow. If Tom knew anything about Potter and anything about the nature of their DADA classes, he knew that Potter did _not_ like Lockhart. Even to the point that Neville knew something was up.

They had confirmation as Potter and Weasley slunk away a few moments after Lockhart turned a different corner.

"What do you suppose…?" Neville began.

"I'm receiving an ominous feeling of déjà vu," Tom replied irritably. "If they're not back by the middle of next class, then I'll have to track them down and figure it out. For the mean time, it's better not to get involved."

Neville nodded.

As Tom surmised would happen, neither boy returned for the remainder of their class with Professor Binns. He told himself they must've been taking advantage of Hermione's absence to play truant, but Tom's instincts knew better than to decide that so easily. With a sigh and a glance Neville's way, Tom rose and left, quite certain the old ghost would hardly notice his absence.

* * *

The walls of the castle were orange with the sunset and the dark corners of the corridors were not yet lit with fire. The sound of his own footsteps were the only thing trailing him besides the distant sound of classroom chatter. He decided he would check the Common Room first before he moved on.

It was the noise that startled him once he reached the hallway near the deserted passage of the second floor. Even in the dark, it was the shining bird hair clip that glinted and he stopped in his tracks. Squinting through the dense shadows of the corridor, he saw her pale hands rise, the tips of her fingers wet with something red as she finished painting what seemed the end of a sentence. Tom, nearly aghast, walked slowly and quietly toward her.

Her back was to him and she was clearly unaware of his approach until he could read the red words, vivid as fresh blood.

**_HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER_**

Tom stopped in his tracks, shock reverberating through his muscles and nerves. He must've made some sound because she turned abruptly, and that made Tom step back. Her eyes; the look in her eyes was the same as it had been those times; the same as it had been when she'd lied so easily to him two months ago, and something began to make sense to Tom in a vague and insensible way. He couldn't let the words take form. This was insanity.

Slowly, very slowly, her blank expression stretched into a familiar smile. A smile Tom had sometimes seen in the mirror. "_Go ahead; figure it out. I know it's on the tip of your tongue._"

He felt as if he had been holding his breath, they way his chest hurt so suddenly. Air would not enter his lungs. Parseltongue. Ginevra was smirking at him, trilling away in the inhuman language only he and Potter knew.

No.

_Not Ginevra._

Involuntarily, he stepped forward and this-thing-that-was-not-Ginevra did the same. In a strange and vague gesture, she raised her hands, still red with paint and curled her fingers in. A strange beckoning. She seemed suddenly older, but not a woman, something else, something that had entered a state of timelessness and immortality. She was beautiful and horrible all at once. "_For someone so directly connected to me, you haven't been very useful, have you, Tom?_" she murmured in her husky girlish voice in a tone that didn't suit.

He had pulled his wand out as she approached, step after step. It was as if she hadn't walked before in those shoes, as if she was testing her feet. Walk, test, walk, test. Tom was beyond words. She was soon standing right before him, and he could see the details of each feature, changed and altered by the mere expression on her face. She reached up and he stepped back immediately.

"What are you?" he demanded, wand pointed directly at her throat.

She didn't laugh, but her smile twisted into something a little bestial when her teeth showed. "_You can hurt her now, but remember that I'm the one between us who knows how to_ kill." He hadn't even seen her reach into her pocket; it was as if her wand materialised into her hand in just the same moment that he felt its tip press into his Adam's apple.

_Definitely not Ginevra_.

"_If you would call yourself my son, then you've a lot of work to do. They say I am dead, but I intend to return and _you_ must be the first to come to me, Tom. For now, you're to wait because I do not believe in you._"

He didn't say it, but he thought it. _Father._ It was a painful weakness, and Tom was looking it in the eye. Through Ginevra's eyes, he saw the missing piece of his existence and it was a soul's power. It was immortality and power, these must be his because in that moment, as he looked down at this spirit with the wand at his own throat, Tom felt his weakness, felt his possible worth fade away to nothing. To this man who had possibly brought him into being, he had become nothing. He was both angry and hurt.

"Swear yourself to me and I will not kill you, little Tom," it said in plain English, the wand tip pressing deeper into his throat.

It was repulsive. He would never swear to anyone. Yet, for his life, for the chance to go on and rise above this shadow of a man, he _must_. He nodded, whispering the single hiss, "_Yes_."

The thing in Ginevra gave him an indulgent smile. "Stupefy!"

Redness clouded his vision and the floor was hard against his head.

* * *

_"Enervate!"_

Tom started up, struggling away from the hands that held him. He was in complete darkness and he squinted as a torch nearby sprang into light. Dumbledore was leaning down over him with a look of concern. "I'm _so_ sorry, Tom," the old man murmured with feeling.

Tom could only look blankly around him. Potter was standing there, a sword in his hand, looking down at Tom with a look of abject horror. He heard a sob nearby and looked to see Ginevra, her head in her hands, crying quietly.

"It seems you've given us a bit of a fright, Tom," the old Headmaster was saying. "Upon my not finding you where I left you, I was just on my way to look when I met Hary and the others half-way. He'd taken you for dead."

Tom was staring from Ginevra to Harry calculatingly. "The Heir…" he whispered.

Dumbledore reached down and hauled Tom up with a surprising display of strength. "There now; all will be explained in due time. To my office, I think."

In Dumbledore's office, Potter recounted the whole tale to Ginevra's family, McGonagall and Dumbledore, and Tom listened with a kind of numbness, not knowing what to feel precisely. Potter had apparently figured out that Slytherin's beast was a Basilisk and had also learned that the ghost of a girl resided in the girl's bathroom where he would later conclude the entrance to the Chamber was. Having heard the announcement of Ginevra's being taken hostage, he'd gone after her. Tom stared at Harry, waiting for him to say how he did it; waiting for him to make clear the manner by which he'd expelled Tom's father from Ginevra without killing her in the process.

Potter paused; he was looking at Tom, and when Tom looked back, Potter looked away and gazed at Dumbledore.

"What interests me most," said Dumbledore gently, "is how Lord Voldemort managed to enchant Ginny when my sources tell me that he is currently in hiding in the forests of Albania."

Tom started, taking in a large breath and nearly choking on it. Uproar from Ginevra's family, and Tom's own little panic attack went unnoticed. So he'd thought until he looked at Potter, who was gazing at him with deep concern. The diary was soon passed to Dumbledore who peered at it calculatingly before quietly explaining that, "very few people know that Voldemort was once called Tom Riddle."

Ginny's weak-willed sobs were the only echo of feeling Tom could remember from that night.

Even when the Weasley's left the room and it was only he, Potter, and Dumbledore there, Tom couldn't force himself to express anything. Dumbledore gave him a cup of tea that he forbore from drinking. His thoughts were everywhere at once. It was his father; everyone knew; Dumbledore was sorry; Potter wished he hadn't found anything; Ginevra was off crying; no, Tom didn't see anything; he was unconscious.

"Voldemort," he kept murmuring carefully, quietly to himself. "Voldemort," he whispered even when he tried to sleep that night because something about it all still didn't fit, something in Tom would not let him rest until the word, "Voldemort" made a little more sense to him.

* * *

On the train ride home, Tom wrote a letter to Lucius Malfoy.

**_I understand the legacy and what I must do. However, Voldemort is dead to me. We will go about this my way or we will end up dead once again. It is your opportunity to let me know just where your loyalty stands on the issue. I wait for your answer at the Leaky Cauldron where I intend to be._**

Potter came in, looking wary.

"Get out," Tom muttered.

It wasn't loud enough or Potter didn't care. He crossed the compartment and sat in the seat opposite Tom.

"You're not your father no more than I am mine," the boy-hero announced.

Tom looked up from his parchment. "And if I am?"

Potter frowned. "I trust _you_ with my life, not Voldemort. It's _you._"

Something about the statement struck Tom as rather funny. He laughed. "What'll they think when they learn that Harry Potter's a nutter?"

Harry gave him a grudging smile.

"So," Tom continued, still in the remnants of his good humour. "What's it like being friends with the Dark Lord's son?"

Harry stood up, his expression blank. He was honestly thinking on the question. "A lot nicer than would think," was his reply.

Tom should've known. The only person to ever think being so connected to an evil wizard was "nice" would be Harry Potter.

* * *

**A/N- All right. Constructive criticism much needed. After all, this isn't the work of a professional, but rather a wanna-be. Here's to Book 3! Love you all!**


	11. Chapter Ten

**A/N- Potato sheep exist…you just have to know where to look. *eye twinkle***

**Disclaimer- I promise, Potter isn't mine, and I make money like everyone else…but not off of this.**

**This chapter is dedicated to my darling little sister who happens to be the only reader who can torture me emotionally until this is finished. I can haz vodka now?**

**Time Or Manner **

_**Part Three**_

Chapter Ten

"I was sure school wouldn't start until September; I thought you'd be coming back for the summer again, Tom. We really do miss you here at home; at least pop in during the holidays…the I.S.S. has been calling."

Tom shifted his weight onto his left foot, leaning his side against the wall of the phone box. How long was it? Forty pence would mean twenty minutes; he'd been listening to Bonny's worried, frivolous whining for about eight minutes then. "I only called to let you know that I'll be away this summer, and it seems that I'll be away much more in the future. You do not need to look for me; I'll call occasionally to make sure the I.S.S. doesn't get involved."

"Tom…" she began, her voice faint in his ear.

He refrained from hanging up right there. "I don't have much time; I need to get back."

"But _where are you, _Tom. I have to tell them where you are."

Tom sighed, looking past the glass of the phone box at the passing automobiles. The rain had come down from Llandudno, N. Wales that week, and it poured in streams up and down the London streets. He could hear it pounding on the glass enclosure. He dreaded sliding open the door. Tom hated being cold. "Tell them I'm still away at my school; they've no reason to question a scholarship, do they?"

"Well…a friend of yours keeps happening by; he's expecting you."

"A friend?"

"Yes; he goes to your school. He's been coming every day this week. I told him you might have stopped in London, but I thought you'd be coming. This doesn't make sense, Tom. I'm your carer, you know; you'd have to let me know _something._"

Now Tom was vaguely irritated. It had to be Potter. Of course, the idiot would think it couth to go about trying to make visits. The time was long passed for those daily conversations in the playground, and Potter had ruined the experience for Tom anyway. "I have to go; there's a bus I need to catch," he returned tightly.

"But, Tom-"

The receiver clanged against its cradle as Tom set it down abruptly. Come the near future, he would no longer need to depend on such a primitive form of communication. Muggles dreamed of video phones in the future, while wizards had been speaking face to face through fireplaces for years. Not that he'd find that any less of a burden were he to be expected to communicate with more people like Bonny.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Like I said, _Mr Adderly_; it is simply not sensible to keep your bats above the wardrobe since the droppings congeal _behind_ it." Irritation leaked into Tom's tone before he could control it. He bit his lip quickly as he felt the old sort of annoyance trickle deep inside him. There was really no need for anything dire in dealing with the more difficult customers since their rule over him was short-lived. "However, if I could provide for you a stray owl cage, then that mightn't be an issue."

Mr. Adderly nodded his heavy head, glancing affectionately at the shrieking creatures above the wardrobe. "If it's for the best, send for two. Wouldn't want them to feel as if I wanted them locked in discomfort."

Tom bowed and quickly took his leave.

The Barman was standing outside the door in the hallway with a deciding grin on his face. Tom shut the door behind him, fixing the older man with a definitive glare. "I still don't see why you cannot admonish your _own_ customers. I cannot accomplish the work you expect me to do quickly enough if I'm to constantly run about on these upper floors for the sake of pest control."

Grin still in place, the Barman slapped Tom on the back. "Well, yer can take the rest of the aff noon off, then. That's yer earning there, Tom."

Tom stepped back to discourage any further contact, but the Barman steered him down the hallway next to him. "Yer see, that's what we're all 'bout here at the Leaky Cauldron. And I can tell yer now, yer the best boy for the job."

"I don't think so," Tom returned absently.

The Barman ignored this. "You and I are summat of a kind. We don' _like _people, but yer of the stronger sort. Yer can stomach it; yer can smile and pretend. Me, I'm old…patience gettin' thinner and thinner each day I wakes up. I make yer work an' all, but as me dead wife's a witness, I pay yer for that insufferable grin yer spin on the customers up an' down this hallway and downstairs. Forgive an old business man his interest."

"I'm going out," was Tom's reply as he continued down the hallway.

"Need yer for supper hour though! Seven _on_ the hour, Tom!"

In all honesty, were it not for the accomplishing payments he received here and there, Tom would've left the Leaky Cauldron the last Yule. The Barman was sometimes frighteningly aware of Tom's real nature, which, even hidden deep behind his callous and indifferent sarcasm, was passionate and vengeful. The strange old man seemed almost sympathetic towards Tom's inner workings, and such awareness of his true being irked him in ways he didn't like to speculate with.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Knockturn Alley. Tom had found many things of interest there since the last Yule he'd spent in Diagon Alley. He'd been searching the shops one after the other, spaced out over the summer vacation, buying his books here and there including, but not limited to a very unpleasant book that tried to bite him until he'd placed an Immobulus charm on it. It was a long avenue, anyway and with the amount of free time he had in the mornings like that, he could wander freely. He had intention of visiting a particular antique store near the western part of Knockturn.

For some reason Tom couldn't fathom, the sun wouldn't touch those streets, so the brick up and down the alley always smelled dank and repressive and the corners were always dark and indistinguishable. Tom ignored this nonetheless and strolled his way downhill.

Like most of the stores, the windows were dusty and almost ancient-looking, but he could see the glitter of strange objects from outside.

There was a man standing at the counter, writing on a sheet of parchment what seemed to be a long list. He was muttering indistinctly, but as the bell at the door clanged, all bitter mutterings stilled to be replaced with a wide-eyed look in Tom's direction.

"What…but…how?" the man gasped, stepping abruptly from behind his counter.

Tom took a carefully calculated step back, but he jumped as he felt a pair of hands settle on his shoulders to steady him. Whirling around, he looked up to lock eyes with one Lucius Malfoy. The older man looked down at him in something like cool amusement.

"Yes, he does look an awful lot like him, doesn't he, Mr. Borgin?" Mr. Malfoy murmured, not breaking eye contact.

"B-but," the old man stuttered from behind him. "so much time has passed, he can't have gotten _younger_."

Tom turned to look at the man who had been called Mr. Borgin. "Do you know me, sir?"

Mr. Borgin was looking carefully at Mr. Malfoy, as if waiting for a signal. Slowly, he shook his head before looking back at Tom, his expression unconvincingly blank.

Tom chose to ignore this and turned his attention upon the source of all this idiocy. "I should like for us to speak, Lucius," he muttered bluntly.

Mr. Malfoy's eyebrows rose in a faint expression of surprise at the familiar address, but he nodded his acquiescence before allowing Tom to pass before him out the door.

Once they'd passed out of Knockturn Alley, Tom turned to the other man. "It's been a month into holidays, I recall sending you an owl in June."

Malfoy was looking out at Gringotts absently. "Indeed, you did. In the meantime, I've been pulling some strings to reinstate some efficiency at Hogwarts. This will ensure your safe and comfortable term at school."

"How do you mean?"

"We cannot speak so openly here; I have suspicion that your headmaster is not above sending any followers out to keep an eye on your dealings."

Tom found himself absently looking about him, eyeing the passing melee.

The evening crowd for the supper hours at the Leaky Cauldron had not yet arrived, so Tom was excused a few more hours. Of course, Tom knew of the possible leverage Mr. Malfoy had over the Barman, and would have been happily excused for the remainder of the evening should the circumstance wish it.

Mr. Malfoy uncorked a bottle of a deep emerald liquid, humming quietly as he poured himself a short glass. "I believe you would easily recall the situational state you found yourself in against the Headmaster of Hogwarts this last term."

Tom frowned, moving to the armchair near the window. "Yes, what of it? I know that it means that the Minister is indebted to my silence for the time being, but I am unsure as to what that bumbling man could possibly offer me as compensation besides immunity to the law."

Malfoy took his seat, swilling the drink absently before taking a slow sip. "Nonsense, really, if you'll forgive my rudeness. Immunity can be easily obtained at anytime in this set of government. As I've mentioned, Tom, I have been using the last two weeks diligently to find a use for the situation."

Tom cast a glare at the older man. "I am past listening to you play around with your words. Tell me what you've done, and what I am free to do."

"Of course," was the reply given with a mild expression of humility, "but you see, this is, in the end, all for the cause of bringing Dumbledore to where he belongs. Typically, I'd have had to take…ahem…special _procedures_ to ensure the school board ordered Dumbledore's dismissal. It was _you, _unsurprisingly, that ensured I needn't go through such risky means to do this. Dumbledore has used his power as Headmaster ill-manneredly, openly playing favouritism and persecuting Hogwarts' prize student."

Tom sat up. "Are you telling me that he may be suspended?"

Lucius' usual pale smile had returned. "Possibly more than that. Dumbledore aside, the main issue here is…what is it you would like to change?"

He watched the older man for a moment before he replied.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tom had never set foot in the Wizarding ministry before, so he was certain that this was to be an illuminating experience. He side-along apparated with Lucius into a vast black-brick layered building. The atrium was crowded with people popping in here and there, running by with stacks of paper in their wake, and chatting in a brisk, business-like manner. Tom observed this as a form of disguised chaos, but nonetheless Lucius seemed to understand it just fine as he led the way down a busy hallway.

"There's the reporter now," Lucius murmured down at him, removing his black kid gloves. "I'm sure you can manage to imitate the attitude of a victim."

The man Lucius had indicated was seated nervously in front of a double-doored office, his hat, a notepad, and pen perched on his lap. Tom smirked. "In this instance, I _am_ a victim, Lucius."

This dragged a rather surprising chuckle from the older man.

"Mr. Malfoy, it _is _an honour," said the man, rising as both Tom and Lucius stepped toward him. "And this, I presume, is the-"

"The unfortunate youth," Malfoy offered and smiled amiably as the reporter immediately wrote that down.

"And what brings you to the Minister's office?"

"As a member of the board of governors at Hogwarts, I take a very special interest in the treatment of her students."

The reporter favoured Mr. Malfoy with a bright, encouraging grin. "Of course. Nothing less from one of the oldest and most respected Wizarding families here in the United Kingdom."

"Lucius?!"

Tom turned as the voice rang through the mini-lobby. Fudge was approaching, his eyes darting between Malfoy, the reporter, and Tom as if gauging the level of conspiracy. Without fail, however, he plastered on a jovial expression as he spread his arms in welcome. "I did not expect your visit today, Lucius, but how pleasing it is to see you either way."

Lucius gave a curt nod. "Forgive me, Minister; to owl beforehand must have slipped my mind entirely."

Abruptly the reporter seemed to leap forward. "Minister Fudge, it is the understanding of the media that this past year Hogwarts has seen a large amount of crisis, which was kept under wraps. What are your comments on the situation?"

Fudge shot a glance of betrayal at Lucius before he pasted his smile back on. "I'm sorry, this is a restricted area; we allow reports only on Prophet days. On Friday, the Ministry will be more than willing to provide a full statement on the issue at Hogwarts."

"So you'd admit that there is currently an issue at Hogwarts."

Fudge fumbled for a handkerchief in his waistcoat pocket to dab at the sweat on his temple. "Well, of course not! Everything is _generally_ the way it is expected to be. Now, no more questions! I have an important meeting now, and I wish to speak with Mr. Malfoy in private!"

Tom observed the reporter's laconic smile with a little degree of admiration. In another world, perhaps, he would take on a job like that. He would do such a thing if only learn the secrets of the government in order to push out to the public out of sheer malignance. The reporter, seemingly somewhat content, folded up his notepad and passed the three of them to exit.

"Now," Fudge sighed, frowning after the reporter's retreating back, "if you would accompany me to my office, Lucius and…er…Tom-was it? Yes, please this way."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Lucius, are you making attempts to have me _impeached_?" Fudge cried as he indicated the armchairs to the left of his desk.

Malfoy took his seat, adjusting his robes. He didn't look Fudge in the eye. "That's hardly a sensible accusation, Minister; the Malfoy family has always supported your campaign religiously."

As Fudge sat as well, Tom couldn't help noticing the cautious and unsettling glances the Minister kept shooting in his direction. Tom set about to ignore this and observe the discussion. Lucius _had _mentioned that there would be much Tom could learn from this exchange were he inclined to lend an ear to it.

"Yes, yes. I know this is true, but you'll forgive me if I must _question_…"

"No need. I've brought Tom here to speak with you alone; it just happened that the rogue reporter was listening in on our conversation. We'd just like to request a little of your time as the present issue at Hogwarts _must_ be settled before we send this boy back there into the hands of the clearly power-mad Headmaster."

Fudge went red. "Now, Lucius; I thought we had settled it in the first place. There isn't much that can be done about-"

"I have, here, several signatures in witness to this young man's treatment at Hogwarts this past year that would have Dumbledore brought to trial as soon as possible."

"What?"

Lucius reached into his front pocket, swiftly unearthing a beige-coloured sheaf of parchment with minute print scrawled across it. He passed it to the Minister silently. Fudge's eyes darted across the pages as he flipped them in his hand, his face growing redder and redder. "Ah, this cannot _be_. Thirty members agreed to this trial? We couldn't possibly do this now…I mean, Lucius, you've heard about the recent…er…incident at Askaban, haven't you? You really can't expect the Ministry to deal with _two _very large scandals in one _month_?"

"Handled in a subtle and professional manner, there really needn't be a scandal."

"Ah, forgive me, Lucius, but it is actually _Albus_ who is assisting me with the Black incident. There are clear rumours stating that upon his escape, Black's first target would be…" Here Fudge glanced doggedly at Tom, who was watching the Minister intently, his expression blank but for his narrowed eyes. It was an unfortunate realisation on Tom's part that he hadn't the faintest clue as to what they were talking about. Askaban? Black? "Well, we can talk more another time about this…you will understand that my hands are partially tied over this issue. The Ministry is concerned with the protection of the public."

Lucius' cold gaze fell on Tom for a short moment, his tone was mocking however. "I see the public is defined by a person's celebrity status. Clearly the Wizarding World places value on the now superfluous Boy Who Lived apart from its hard-working populace."

Fudge adopted a sudden dumbstruck look. "Harry Potter's protection is important, but I assure you, Lucius, I will personally observe that the upcoming term will be without incident and Tom, here, can observe a healthy school term as well as many to come, but I _need_ Albus in his position as of now. You, as my good friend, would surely understand this, Lucius."

Malfoy sighed. "How unfortunate that it must be this way. All right, Minister; this is fine for now. I do, however, wish to voice my dissatisfaction with the result."

Fudge stood, fiddling with his pockets distractedly. "For the mean time, let me know what I can offer your charge to ensure _some_ satisfaction."

Tom gave a faint nod as Malfoy subtly inclined his head in his direction. "As an orphan, Tom's future and well-being is under the jurisdiction of the Muggle government. His progression is hindered by this circumstance. He requests that his obligation to Muggle law be transferred to Wizarding law instead."

"That's easy enough," Fudge replied, beaming slightly in Tom's general direction. "I will have my secretary owl the paperwork for you to fill out and sign, and that issue'll be settled well enough. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm still late for my meeting with the Auror Department Head."

Tom couldn't help but fall silent as he fell in step behind Lucius Malfoy. Some disconcerting thoughts had come upon him as he'd listened intently to that conversation. While it was true he had many questions to ask regarding the supposed _other_ scandal, he was thinking more on his own situation. Since he'd entered the Wizarding World, he had made many things happen for himself, but it had been through the work of other people. He'd latched onto Neville in the effort to prevent the look of vulnerable loneliness that came with walking by oneself in a big castle like Hogwarts. Now it was Lucius who would speak for him, making him look much more like a helpless orphan child. And as much as he wished to portray this role as a front, he knew that acting on his own in this wide world and in this modern age would set him back years and years merely for his stature and status.

"Does something worry you, Tom?" Lucius inquired causing Tom to jump from his thoughts abruptly.

He observed the older man without blinking. "I feel confident that I can safely tell you that I'm currently frustrated and impatient."

Mr. Malfoy began to walk forward a bit nonchalantly, placing his hands behind his back. "As you should be," he muttered back to him. "Not much will happen for some time especially during present circumstances. One of your father's followers has found his way free of the Wizarding prison. The Prophet claims his primary target is a particular classmate of yours."

Tom stopped in his tracks. "And you would tell me this only now?"

"Information is meant for those who should be informed," was the older man's reply.

Tom made a sound of irritation at the older man's meaningless enigmatic answer as he slipped his hands in his pockets. "See that those papers are signed and filled out quickly. I dislike having Muggle laws chasing after me when I am no longer to be considered Muggle."

This statement seemed to please Lucius. "Indeed not."

Perhaps a week later, Tom received two owls. One was his Hogwarts list, and the other was a messy letter from Harry.

_Thought you'd be coming back to Surrey this summer. __I found the Foster home where you __Well, wherever you are, hope your holidays have been great. Been having some problems with the Muggles, but that's normal. Can hardly even finish my History of Magic essay without my uncle barging in. His sister is coming to visit in a few hours. She's really horrid, I'll tell you. The Hogsmeade thing sounds fun; who's going to sign your permission form? I had to blackmail my uncle to get him to sign mine. He hasn't yet, but I've only to put up with Aunt Marge for a week. Did you know the Weasley's are in Egypt? I've never been outside England, have you? __Listen, I've been thinking about last year __Well, I'll owl you later in the week._

_Harry._

Tom went back to his Hogwarts list and unearthed the aforementioned permission slip. He tucked it away with the other parchments. He would have Lucius sign it at the right opportunity. It wasn't his first owl that summer as Neville had found it necessary to keep him updated on his findings. For some reason, the boy had spent a good amount of time at the Wizarding hospital St Mungo's that summer and had been studying the annals with a Healer's permission.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Since meeting the Barman, Tom had found there had been very many things he had had to be tolerant of. The man's patronising cheeriness mixed with an unsettling awareness of Tom's behavioural patterns was cause enough for Tom to have left his position at the Leaky Cauldron. The man had even the audacity to be Tom's very namesake, but he was tolerant nonetheless of all these things because they were circumstantial. However, it was on that night two weeks from the end of August around two am when the Barman lumbered into Tom's quarters and shamelessly prodded his arm until Tom awoke that Tom decided with grave decision that he would have to put his foot down on this issue.

He groggily pushed the covers away. "What do you mean by it, sir; waking me up at this hour?"

It was only upon this address that Tom had the opportunity to see the old man's expression. It was frantic.

"The Minister's _here. _An' he's expecting a guest! Up an' at 'em, Tom; we've to prepare. The cook's closed the kitchen an' gone home."With these words, the older man lumbered out, retying his apron over his nightshirt.

"The Minister?" Tom repeated blankly, sliding off the bed as he reached for his shirt. What business did the Minister have that would need to occur at this hour? And why the frantic secrecy? Unless Tom was mistaken, the Ministry had offices and private meeting rooms. What would this guest gain from meeting with the Minister for Magic at the Leaky Cauldron in the middle of the night?

He rushed to the kitchen where there was a great clatter and found the Barman in pantry pulling forth several different types of tea. He turned when he heard Tom enter. "Ah, good. Continue with the tea. The crumpets are heating. It's something urgent so go on ahead an' use magic. The Ministry will only pick it up as mine so yer needn't worry. Bring it up to room two-twelve when yer finish."

Tom nodded, still a little sleep addled. He withdrew his wand and muttered a spell. The crumpets glowed a bright orange as they baked a bit quicker. He didn't think much of studying household spells as he had no intention of occupying any house for a long time with the mission of taking care of it as well. He would forebear for now and make tea the Muggle way until absolutely necessary.

Room two-twelve was, as would be obvious to anyone, on the second floor so Tom had to take care and use the second stairway, mindful of the possibility of any guests wandering down for any reason. It would be a bother, however, since the Minister would be in the room himself and Tom could not magic the door open. He would have to balance the tray on one side or hold the tray and manoeuvre his knee high enough to push down on the door handle.

Upon taking this job, Tom had been certain that his hours would be sensible. He hadn't at all expected to be woken up at odd times to cater to the wishes of some uppity man with a ministerial title. He should probably have given this job a bit more thought. But then again, perhaps adopting such a humble position would be beneficial to him. After all, if anyone suspecting of his designs saw him behaving with any pretention, he'd be more than likely to increase his susceptibility for failure. No. He would make do with what he had at present and move forward without complaint.

"Oh! You?" Fudge said as Tom pushed the door open, holding the tray on the expanse of his left arm. "Right, yes. Lucius did mention-"

Tom forced a smile and set the tray on one of the side tables. It was only as he was rising up again that out of the corner of his eye he saw a shock of black. Against the backdrop of deep red and browns, the colour could have been white and it would have made Tom turn. It was only the feeling he received in his gut when he felt the need to turn that made the whole experience very different. It was much like when he was side-along apparated with Lucius, that wrenching twist between his stomach and his chest as if his very lungs were being squeezed and then lurched forward.

Potter sat there, a starved looking thing swallowed deep in the softness of the sofa, his big eyes focussed intently on his own hands as if they were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

With the summer having passed the way it had, Tom had had some measure of peace of mind. His thoughts on such things as his father, the incident with Ginevra, and Potter's strange and alarming acceptance of his possible nature had all become mild when he knew he didn't so much have to face them. However, with Potter seated there, all of last term came flying back and no more was he young orphan Tom trying to make his way in the world, but he became Tom the wizard with a dark legacy hanging over the back of him. On top of that, it was such a legacy that, should he accept it, would crack the very cornerstone of his world. Tom vaguely wondered why just the sight of Potter would bring that all back.

He only just remembered to wonder what Potter thought he was doing there as he picked up the tray and set it right in front of the boy-hero. Potter's eyes rose slowly as Tom stood there, glaring down at him. It seemed there was a moment of registration as Potter blinked up at him. Tom's eyes narrowed as Potter's mouth fell open and that listless expression shifted to an expression of delight. Tom found a smile of his own pulling at his lips with just the sight of such pleasure in response to himself.

The Minister cleared his throat. Tom turned to realise that Fudge had taken his seat opposite Potter and was ready to commence business. Decorum called Tom to leave the room immediately, but Potter shot Tom a sudden screaming look that said, "Don't leave me alone with him!" in just so many words, which was all kinds of ridiculous since Tom couldn't very well remain in the room with Fudge expecting him to leave. Tom looked at Fudge speculatively for a moment as the Minister looked back at him in utter surprise.

"If you've something to say to Harry, Tom; it will have to wait. He and I have business to discuss."

Tom looked back at Harry ensuring his back was turned to the Minister. "_I'll be just outside_," he mouthed. Swivelling on his heel, he made for the door, shutting it behind him. He leaned carefully against it so as to hear the conversation, but it was as his fingers touched the oak door, he felt a warmth emit from it suddenly and Tom could suddenly smell the magic. Fudge had immediately set a imperturbable charm on it. A little bit incensed, Tom stepped away from the door just as the Barman came stomping up the steps at the end of the corridor.

"The fire in room eleven is up and ready. Since yer up too, I'll let you show Mr. Potter to that room."

Tom pulled the strings on the back of his own apron a bit too roughly as he removed it. "He's staying here?"

"Jus' til the next term in the autumn. Tha's two weeks away if I'm not mistaken."

"What does that have to do with the Minister? Why's he here in the first place and at this time?"

The Barman chuckled. "I'm sure yer can ask the boy when he's out o' his meeting with the Minister. His things have already been brough' up so jus' make sure any of his requests are answered."

Tom nodded a bit numbly as the Barman hobbled on back down the stairs. Letting out a bit of an exasperated sigh, he leaned back against the opposite wall to wait for Fudge and Potter to be done with it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You blew up your aunt?!" Tom exclaimed, then seeing Potter's guiltless expression, he laughed, leaning back against the bed post.

"Well, as far as she and I are concerned, she had it coming," Potter replied stolidly, scratching his owl's head absently.

"That's unbelievable, even for you. What did she do?"

Potter shrugged. "I told you in my last owl that she was terrible. She started saying some things about my parents, things she _knew nothing about!_" His expression darkened and the fire crackling in the grate gave an alarming snap that Tom jumped a little.

"Calm down," he admonished quietly. "You've dealt with her enough. Though I'd have made sure she couldn't utter a word so long as I let her live."

Potter bit the inside of his lip, looking at Tom across the expanse of his bed. "Well, in a moment like that, it's hard for me to think. I was just so _angry_."

Tom glanced over at the fireplace to ensure it hadn't become an inferno before he looked back at Potter. "You seem most powerful when you're angry, I've noticed."

"Good thing the Minister for Magic is acting weird, otherwise I wouldn't have got away with it."

"What do you mean _weird_?"

"Well, if you blew up your aunt, would you expect the Ministry to just…let you go like that?"

Tom shot Potter a sardonic look. "Well, I'm not the Boy Who Lived, am I?"

The other boy rolled his eyes. "Some good it did me in the end, I couldn't even convince the Minister to sign my permission form for Hogsmead-oh yeah! Did you get yours signed?"

Tom shook his head. "I'm not going back to the orphanage for any reason."

Potter stared at him. "Orphanage? You live in a Foster home…"

Tom paused, quite certain he had said Foster Home, or at least it had been his intention to say it. How strange. "Foster home, I mean, of course."

A deliberative silence passed before Potter broke out with, "Hey, have you heard about that Sirius Black bloke?"

"Here and there. I was told he was an old follower of my father-"

"Your father?"

"Yes, my father…Voldemort."

"Erm…"

Tom looked at the other boy decisively before venturing forth. "What?"

The boy-hero let his owl flutter back up to its perch on the wardrobe and surveyed his hands. "I don't think it's good for you to be going around saying things like that."

Tom pursed his lips sternly. "Were you not the one who claimed not to mind that Voldemort was my father?"

"Yeah, but I meant that…you're _nothing_ like him."

Now Tom was glaring. "And how are you to know that? Have you honestly met the man?"

"He killed my parents!"

"Blah blah blah," Tom argued listlessly. "Don't think that because anyone tells you that this gives you valuable knowledge of him that it's true. Perhaps he had good reason to do so."

Potter's mouth fell open, his brilliant green eyes narrowing. "I can't _believe_ you just said that."

Tom wouldn't look at him anymore. "I only hoped you would look at it objectively, but I see you're too consumed with your own pre-conceived notions about the issue. Besides, not two seconds ago, you employed a double standard regarding you and me. I am not to value the life my father lived in exchange for yours and that of your parents."

Potter jumped up. "No, that's not what I meant at all. I'm sorry for saying that to you. I guess it just bugs me that he was your father. It's confusing when you're one of my best friends and you come from _him_."

Tom folded his arms. "It's only confusing if you make it confusing. A situation is only based upon your idealism regarding it."

"I don't know what that even means…but don't get angry. I'm glad you're here anyway since I spent most of the days this summer looking for you at your house."

Tom grimaced. "I wish you wouldn't do that. I have intentions of cutting off ties with that house in favour of better things. I am a wizard, and I wish only to live as one."

"Right," Potter returned uncertainly, taking his seat back on his bed. "Actually…it was Dumbledore who told me that I shouldn't think of you in connection with Voldemort. He…said that that was the mistake he made last year."

Tom could feel the disdain rising up as he listened.

"It was last year that made me realise that people like Dumbledore could be wrong too."

He couldn't resist rolling his eyes.

"But there was one other thing I realised last year too…" Potter continued, completely unmindful of his unreceptive audience. "That even when people make mistakes like that, you know, judgemental mistakes…it's really all right to forgive them."

Tom's right eyebrow rose. "And? You're saying to me that I'm to forgive Dumbledore?"

"Well, yeah…why not?"

The fire was a safe direction to glare. What Tom found that Potter didn't understand was the fact that he was not so much bitter against Dumbledore over last year's events-- which he was, after all—but it was that he disliked the idea that his father had been subjected to the same treatment long ago within the same circumstances. It made whatever legacy that had been left behind for him heavier than it had been when he thought of it alone. He hated Dumbledore's ideology about the world and the black and white within it. He hated the man for his self-righteous sense of being wrong or right when it was so much more than that. With the behaviour of last year, Tom felt the entire scope of his destiny altered by the mere fact that he had been subject to something bigger than he had had the opportunity to comprehend.

It was fine, however. He couldn't expect Potter to understand so easily when he, himself, still struggled with the nuances of it. It was the nature of this dynamic between himself, his father, the movement, Lucius, and last of all the side that seemed to epitomise what the Wizarding World called "good." Tom knew what _good_ was, he knew the things that constituted "goodness" in his eyes, but the sore factor of it was that he was constantly contradicted with rules and ideals and strange paradoxes regarding society's moral structure.

Seeming to read the atmosphere in the room, the other boy broke out with, "Listen, I don't really mean to tell you how you should see Dumbledore. I know he's a good Headmaster and a _really_ amazing wizard, but I'm sure you'll see that on your own when you get the chance." Potter gave a little laugh. "God, I must sound completely like Hermione

Tom leaned his head back against the bedpost. "At least if it was _she_ saying these things to me then I could chalk it up to her unbelievable neuroses. In your case, I'm tempted to consider head trauma."

Potter frowned a little. "Actually, there is a real reason why I'm talking about Dumbledore like that. I think…I've been feeling a bit guilty this summer."

"Guilty?"

The other boy drew his knees up slowly, but he leaned forward as if preparing for any possible eavesdroppers. "There's something about last year that I didn't tell anyone. I mean, I told Dumbledore and everyone about the Basilisk and sort of how the memory of Riddle wound up dead, but I left it a bit vague on purpose."

Tom was completely rapt with attention. Of course, a small part of him had been hungering for more information about last year's events. After his encounter with Ginevra the way she had been, he had felt pushed far into a dark corner where it would be impossible for him to learn any further.

"You see, ever since we first started speaking to each other, I realised that I could always depend on you to be thinking the right things."

"Please elaborate on your use of the word, 'right,'" Tom returned testily.

"Stuff that makes sense. You say it in a way that makes me realise that I think the same way too, but I just can't put it into words like you do…"

"What does this have to do with last year?"

"I'm getting to that. You see, before Riddle tried to kill me, he and I were talking, and one of the main things we talked about was Dumbledore."

Tom gave him an incredulous look. "You were head to head with a form of your arch-nemesis, and you had an amiable conversation first?"

"Well, no…not really. He was mostly telling me what his plans for the future were, and he said that his destiny was greatness…that he would be the greatest wizard anyone would ever know. And you know what?"

"Go on?"

"Along the subject of great wizards, I immediately thought of Dumbledore, but I kept thinking of all you went through last year because someone like Dumbledore thought he couldn't _possibly_ be wrong. That bothered me, and I felt like _I_ might be wrong. I've been thinking and thinking about it, and it made me realise that the only reason I couldn't hate that form of Voldemort entirely was…because of you."

There was a very quiet moment in which Tom gazed at Harry in incredulous silence.

"I don't mean for it to be taken in a bad way," he continued. "He was talking and talking, and even though I kept thinking, _this is the boy who will grow up and terrorise thousands_, I kept coming back to thinking of you and how you are…and I know you're not like that, but he wasn't either. It was like a game of pretend, and you and I were down in the chamber pretending to hate each other. I didn't like it and all I felt was that I wanted to end it because a big part of me kept saying, 'Tom would say these things and he's never completely wrong'."

"What was it he was saying?" Tom murmured, trying to stem whatever inside him he felt wanted to get out.

"Things…" was Potter's reply, "like that he saw Ginny as something interesting because she wanted to be useful. He called her-what was it…something like…the 'hateful magic of loneliness and youth'."

_Such words_, was the thought jumping to forefront in Tom's mind. He'd thought of Ginevra again and again, and it was this, these words of his father, that would be the blue print of his temperamental fascination with her. Frivolous and futile, though it seemed at times. Tom could now be no more than the open-mouthed audience to Potter's stammering narrative.

"Somehow I felt drawn to ask him about Dumbledore and he told me about how he was never given praise for the things he did well—at least not from Dumbledore—I immediately thought of you again and it's the same. And the more he talked, the more I wanted to ask. I don't know if Dumbledore would have wanted me to ask what I wanted to ask, but I did. You see, I'd heard enough about Dumbledore last year that it all didn't seem to have any effect."

Tom nodded slowly, but broke out with, "If all this happened when you spoke with him, how'd he end up dead?"

Potter gave a small shrug. "In the end it was about Ginny. He needed the rest of her soul to get stronger, and to keep on existing. He said, 'I'm certain it's something you could understand; surviving when a lot of other people wish otherwise.' I'm pretty sure you can guess what happened when I disagreed."

"If you pronounced the validity of my death so easily?" Tom laughed before he could stop himself. "I'd have killed you."

"Not unlike Riddle." Potter grinned back. "I fought him, you know—like, _really_ fought him. I'm a bit surprised that I won since it was going so badly at first. That is, until I got my wand back. Remember that spell you gave me last Valentine's. I hadn't used it, not once, but when I said the words for it, it just burst right out of me…this jagged light sort of arced upwards straight in the Basilisk's eyes."

"Impressive," Tom had to admit.

"Not really. I was scared out of my mind, and I didn't know what I was doing, but it all sort of came to me…I said some other words and before I knew it, I'd summoned _the_ Gryffindor sword. I don't even know _how _to summon. I killed it, that snake…she was mad, you know. All those years in a dark chamber surviving off the smallest rodents…she was near dying."

Tom stared at the other boy for a bit. "And you kept this all from Dumbledore."

Potter leaned against his pillows in a seemingly comfortable position, but his fists on his legs were clenched. "I feel like he knows. You see? That's why I've been feeling so guilty and that's why…"

"Why you want me to reconcile with the old Headmaster? For the sake of your guilt?"

"No! Not completely…it's about Riddle…he hated Dumbledore too. They say Voldemort fears him, and I feel like that's where it all comes from…at least some of it. I feel like I understand Riddle, like I understand you…the only thing I confided in Dumbledore with is the fact that I'm worried that history's repeating itself. That if you have to keep going it alone, you might…"

Tom's mouth tightened. "I'm going to pretend that I don't know what you're saying."

"No, but—"

"I would like to change the subject," Tom cut in sharply.

The boy-hero's eyes were fixed so earnestly on him, it was impossible not to look back in some fashion. Tom settled for glaring at him through hooded eyes. "I think you were fortunate enough to gain a lot of truth last term…don't let it make you complacent. You met my father, he told you some things…shelve them…and learn not to procure your principles by what people say. _I_ say observe and form your own ideals. _You_, not Dumbledore, not Riddle, not Ron or Hermione…_you_ make up your mind."

A sly grin was shot at him. "What about _you_? Do I have to listen to what you say?"

Tom thought the question was preposterous. He grabbed the closest object- a pillow- and tossed it at Potter's head. "Of course you do, idiot. You'd be useless without me!"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Barman leaned over the counter as he ran a rag over the polished wood. "I won' bug yer 'bout the lie in yer had this morn, Tom, as this is on'y yer first."

Tom silently sipped his tea, calmly refusing to express any outrage at the innkeeper's words. Left to his own devices, he'd have remained in bed until two in the afternoon. He had, after all, only had four hours of sleep thanks to the Boy Who Took All Night to Express Himself.

"Anyway, when yer finish yer morning' tea, jus' pop up an' see if Mr. Potter would like his breakfast. If'n he's still sleepin', leave the teapot on the table."

He left his egg on toast behind the counter as he got up to fetch his apron. With the way he felt, eating would be a bad idea.

Much to his surprise, Potter was already awake, just putting on his trainers.

"Does your hero status inhibit your sleeping patterns?" Tom quipped as he entered the room.

Potter laughed. "Shall we walk around Diagon Alley?"

Tom set the breakfast tray beside Potter's bed. "I can see you're perfectly aware that I have a job to do, so I'll leave that question alone."

"Oh," Potter sighed. "Well, do you have days off?"

"My free-time is between four and seven."

"OK, then I'll just wait-"

"No, you _won't_. I refuse to allow you to mill about as I work. With your chatter, I'll never get anything done."

The other boy smiled. "I was going to say that I'll wait around the shops; I have to buy my school things."

Annoyingly embarrassed, Tom nodded. "You can pour your own tea; I'll see you after four."

Potter still had that smart look on his face. "How do you know where I'll be?"

Tom made for the door. "I'll find you, you annoying prick."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It had been last year that Tom had noticed something about Potter. He was deplorably easy to find. He could almost understand it now especially in light of Voldemort's being his father. The lingering effects of the Killing Curse Voldemort had set on Harry definitely left its mark. Tom had quite obviously never had family, but he was quite certain it was like this. A feeling like that agonising pull from deep in his chest, like the swirling mixed feeling of near nausea he had felt when in possession of Riddle's diary, and the floating sensation of familiarity swimming about the other boy were all signals of his proximity. He sometimes wondered if it was the same with Potter, whether the other boy had only to use his instincts to find him.

He found the boy-hero in Flourish and Blotts, following the manager's assistant through the bookshelves. When he stepped up beside the other boy, Potter pointed down at a book he'd been staring at. "See that dog?"

On the cover of a book titled: _Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the Worst Is Coming, _a large black dog leered out with gleaming yellow eyes and protruding fangs. "What about it?"

"I've seen it before," Potter muttered quietly as the manager's assistant moved on. "Last night when I left the Dursley's. It was sitting in front of one of the houses on Magnolia Crescent."

"You think you've seen a death omen?" Tom muttered back, but his fingers pulled into his palm as a shudder of fear came upon him. He shut his mouth tightly very quickly so as to avoid having Potter see.

Thankfully, the assistant returned, pressing a book into Potter's hands.

"It can't be a _death omen_, can it?" the other boy queried as they left the shop.

"I'll admit I know very little about omens and the like. Yet, you'll have to consider the fact that you've a mass-murderer coming after you."

"What?!" Potter stopped in his tracks, nearly dropping his books.

Tom looked at Potter decisively. "You know, Sirius Black? If you didn't know about it, then how is it you brought him up last night?"

"I'd heard about him, but I didn't know he was after _me_."

"Why wouldn't he be? You destroyed his leader."

"Not on purpose!" Potter paused, giving a bit of a confused frown. "Well, not _really…_anyway, why did no one tell me? It's not like I can't take care of myself."

"Besting Voldemort three times can't really say much for his follower, can it?" Tom supplied thoughtfully.

"It explains why Fudge was so nice to me last night. He was just relieved to see me alive…but now I _know_ I can't go to Hogsmeade. They'll be watching me all year."

"Isn't that better?" Tom inquired slowly, eyeing the other boy. "You…don't want to be murdered, do you?"

"I'm not afraid of Black; he's just another thing trying to kill me."

All objections aside, Tom was certain now that the other boy was quite mad deep down.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The only true downside to having Potter at the Leaky Cauldron was that it made the holidays seem to end so much quicker. Every day was over before it began, and Tom found that exploring Diagon Alley a second time wasn't exactly the bore he expected, what with Potter's ever eager commentary to go with it. He was certain he would never tire of Potter's occasional gasp of surprise and his strangely wistful murmur of, "I _love _magic."

Even the innkeeper was made aware of Tom's camaraderie with the boy-hero that he granted Tom the last evening's supper off. The condition was that he would have to do the upper floor bedrooms before the seven o' clock rush. Tom complied and set to work immediately, refusing Potter's assistance.

"It's three right now; it won't be that much of a struggle for me to finish. I'll meet you after seven downstairs."

In celebration, Potter had suggested instead of eating supper at the Leaky Cauldron they would go to the place behind Gringotts.

"I went there for lunch last Thursday; they have a shepherd's pie with little potato sheep on it. I reckoned you'd like to see that."

"Let me assure you, Potter, potato sheep have never been on my list as a 'must-see'," Tom had returned a tad witheringly, but he agreed that he would go nonetheless.

The upper floor had about nine rooms, and they were all inhabited by the more wealthy wizards. The upside to this was that none of them stayed at the inn too long, which meant the accumulation of mess was very little, and even without magic, he could have the place dusted, the floors scrubbed and the beds made within forty minutes.

That having been his plan, four hours later, Tom descended the staircase, feeling a secret sense of accomplishment. Of course, that was before he heard a familiar voice, or rather _two _familiar voices

"…and we intend to make something of this year-"

"- ensuring proper entertainment for the average student."

Tom stopped mid-step near the curve towards the dining room. He could've sworn he'd just heard the heartily annoying guffaws of a particular pair of twins. Pulling roughly at the strings of his apron to remove it, Tom slowly edged toward the entrance.

They were all there; every Weasley Tom had ever met. His eyes grazed the tables, noting for a quick moment Hermione chatting animatedly to Ginevra before his eyes fell on Potter in the midst of them all. The expression on the boy's face was near euphoric with complacency.

It could've been an intentional insult for all Tom felt. He worked at the Leaky Cauldron without complaint, but he didn't really want anyone to _know_ that he did. Now the entire Weasley clan had congregated where he couldn't escape and Potter, on top of it, making merry with them. It was not something he should be obligated to face, and Potter was idiot enough not to inform him. And from the manner in which they were seated, they'd been here awhile.

Feeling a distinctly sour feeling in his gut, Tom backtracked up the stairs, lingering a little against the middle landing. Before he could stop himself, he expelled a heavy sigh, trying not to think it, let alone perceive the reason he felt a bit foolish.

A tug on the back of his jumper pulled him abruptly out of his reverie. Letting go of the banister, he swivelled a bit to the left expecting to have the opportunity to berate the other boy.

His eyes met honey brown.

"I…didn't know you were here," Ginevra said softly, her waifish fingers entwined in the fabric of his jumper.

Silently, he extricated himself from her hold. Her gaze was a bold reminder of a dark corridor where a nearby torch flickered against words written in bright red. _Not Ginevra._ He shuddered a little at the memory and released her hand.

"I was going to owl you, but…I didn't know what to say. It's been a strange summer, anyway. I was in Egypt, and Neville said you didn't like being bothered during the holidays. I wanted to know what to bring back for you…"

What on earth was she babbling at him for? She could have at least had the courtesy to wait until they were at school where the distraction of school work would keep him from snapping under the weight of her prattle.

Tom ensured that his entire disposition exuded sheer malevolence as he gazed back at her. It made Ginevra stutter to a stop midsentence.

A decidedly awkward silence followed at which Ginevra's eyes strayed to the fabric in Tom's hand. "Is that an apron? What would you need an apron for…Tom, you're _working_ here?"

He sighed, turned, making as if to mount the stairs, but she caught at his elbow, stumbling up two steps after him.

"Sorry, I mean…I needed to talk to you after what happened. I feel like there isn't anyone else who would understand."

"I've better things to do than to listen to the woes of a little girl," he snapped, shaking her off with great vehemence. He nearly reached the upper landing, thinking he would go to one of the parlours and wait out the evening, notating a few spells and hybrids to try when he arrived at Hogwarts.

"Swear yourself to me, and I will not kill you."

Her voice was thin, shaking, with something like grief and Tom almost missed a step.

"What?"

Silence as two solid tears streaked down the side of her little nose.

He descended back toward her. "What was that you just said to me?"

"You remember it," she gasped. "So it wasn't a dream. He was there, inside me, hurting my chest and my head…like his fingernails were digging in my brain. I thought he would kill you, then. It was like I thought of it, to have it done, but it wasn't me. It was…Tom, _him_."

"You were aware of him?"

She rubbed suddenly at her eyes and bowed her head. "Only that night…he'd gotten so strong that I breathed…and he was the air."

Tom withdrew into himself for a moment, still looking at Ginevra, who gazed back at him just as intensely. "Is he still there? In your head, I mean."

She pursed her lips, nervously folding her arms over her chest. "That's just the thing. I don't know, but I've been feeling different. I know Harry killed him, but I feel like there's something left…like a stain."

He didn't reply. The whole thing bothered him. It was the impression of death that lay about her, her pallor, the sad disposition. She was sepulchral to him right then, and the cool weight of fear pressed down from the walls of his mind. "We'll have to see to it when we're at Hogwarts," he finally replied offhandedly, thinking that if he kept his voice low, it wouldn't shake.

Tom was then taken aback by the abrupt change of expression on her face. She beamed up at him. "I _knew_ you would help! Neville said you wouldn't bother with me after what happened, but-"

"Just one moment," he cut in. "Why on earth are you and Neville discussing me so casually?"

She was still smiling smugly. "It's not like that. Neville respects you, and so do I. After all this, I promise I'll do anything to help you in any way I can."

"What promise are you making? You're already bound by the vow you made to me last year."

She hesitated. "Right. Well, double it or something; I'm on your side now."

He meant to reply that her sentiments were obsolete in the face of what he could do very well on his own, when a head peaked around the entrance to the staircase from below. Hermione blinked up at them in surprise, followed by that of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

"Tom? You're here?" Hermione broke out dazedly.

Weasley was staring at him decisively.

Potter grinned. "Yeah, he's been here all summer."

The red-haired portion of the trio's eyes widened suddenly. "Argh, Harry! Tell me this isn't the secret surprise you were so eager to get to before supper!"

The boy-hero flushed with irritation. "I didn't say it was a 'secret surprise.' I said 'There's something important I have to do by seven!' And then when you asked what, I said, 'It'll be a secret for now'."

Apart from being referred to as "it," Tom was now irked by the fact that his presence would soon be made known throughout that dinner table as well as his occupation at present. Still, it was obvious that Potter had learned his lesson from last year's summer and had at least the decency to try and look for him.

"Hold on. You're not working here, are you?" Weasley broke out.

"So what if he is?" Ginevra snapped.

"Not that he's saying there's anything wrong if he is," Hermione added pointedly, glaring at Weasley who looked bewildered.

Tom, having already the predisposition to ignore their questions and comments, went down the stairs and side-stepped all of them.

"Tom, we were actually just going up there. Erm…we wanted to talk about Black."

He glanced at Potter, at the same time realising with some resignation that he couldn't spend time with the other boy when those two were there. There was Hermione's condescending toleration, and Weasley's tactless behaviour to cross, and there was really no power on this earth that would make him put up with it. "I have to pack for tomorrow," he returned shortly.

"Oh, but you're coming with us, right?" Hermione cut in. "Ron's dad works for the Ministry, so they're sending cars to pick us up."

He hesitated. "No-"

"Yes, he's _coming_ _with_ _us_. It wouldn't make sense for him not to," Potter replied stolidly. It would perhaps be the first time he would see Potter look at him so thunderously. "I'll come by and wake you up tomorrow morning, all right?"

He had no reply that wouldn't make him look mulish. With a stiff nod, he finished his descent to his room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Tom, you said? Isn't he the boy I met just the beginning of your last term?" Mrs Weasley queried rather politely to the backseat occupied by Tom and Ginevra. Tom had made the decision to take this car in order to avoid the deplorable company that the Boy Who Lived kept. Unfortunately now, he was subject to the scrutiny of Ginevra's mother, who, despite the fact that her head was turned in the direction of the road, still managed to make it seem as if she were appraising him.

Tom glanced at Ginevra, who sat forward and said, "Yes, and he helped save me last year when-"

"_Ginny!_" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "What did I just say not two weeks ago?"

The little redhead sat back and turned to face out the window. "You told me not to talk about it."

"Yes. We all know that the experience was bad for you, but like I said, your father cannot afford to face any more enquiries at work. The ministry would be more than likely to believe that your father charmed…well, you know what I mean. We need to keep that under wraps for a while. Oh-and thank you, Tom, for taking good care of Ginny. She's our youngest, and her brothers have other things on their minds it seems." The older woman tilted her head back a bit so as to make a sliver of eye contact with Tom. Tom offered her a smile, though he wasn't particularly partial to being identified as Ginevra's new caretaker.

Ginevra pouted the rest of the way to King's Cross. She was properly ignored by all those present. When they'd unpacked the trunks and luggage from the cars, she continued looking around with her watery-eyed expression. As they paired up to enter the platform, he grasped her arm. "If you are to spend any time around me at all, you will drop this laughable baby persona you insist on wearing and grow up," he hissed.

He straightened as Mrs. Weasley turned toward them. "Tom both of you, hurry or you'll miss the train!"

It seemed that they were divided by the crowd as they parted with the Weasley parents, but Ginevra remained quite stubbornly at the back of him, dragging her own trunk along valiantly. Tom was preoccupied with the fact that Neville wasn't waiting around for him anywhere. The boy was a hundred years too early to try and acquire any form of autonomy from him.

As if to echo his thoughts, Ginevra murmured, "Where's Neville gotten to?"

They passed about three full compartments before Tom set his trunk down to look about him. If he'd come by his own means to King's Cross, he might've been early enough to acquire an empty compartment, but moving around with the Weasleys and co. was as good as having returned to the Foster home to attend an outing. It had all been so messy, disorganised, and worst of all slow.

"Perhaps-" Ginevra began, but was immediately cut off by a compartment near the end unearthing Neville. The other boy glanced up and down the train, spotted Tom and Ginevra, and waved emphatically.

"I waited and waited, but you weren't coming, so I decided it would be best to find a compartment, but the train was already packed. I tried to order her out, but…" Neville trailed off as Tom brushed past him into the little room.

The "her" Neville was referring to happened to be a Ravenclaw girl seated near the window, book open, her legs swinging back and forth at an alarming speed for anything nonchalant. She regarded Tom with what he thought of as abject surprise with her big white-grey eyes boring into him unblinkingly.

"You," Tom set off immediately. "_Out_."

The girl's expression didn't waver, nor did her impertinent gaze upon him. "I know you," she said finally, after a painful silence. She spoke like one incapable of existing in the present. "You're very clever. They talk about you in the Ravenclaw Common Room most times."

Tom waited.

Her crooked little mouth quirked into a rather peculiar grin. "You'll be much more comfortable when the train moves if you sat down. There's a lot of room, you see?"

Tom heard an ungainly sound of suppressed laughter behind him. He glanced back to catch Ginevra biting her sleeve to keep from laughing. She saw his expression and straightened, pushing past him to sit beside the other girl. "Luna, you really ought to tell Tom about your theory on Magical meta-meta-whatsit?"

"Metastasis," Luna filled in, looking away out the window distractedly, that curious smile still in place.

Neville slowly took a seat opposite, eyeing the odd girl. This left Tom standing awkwardly in the entrance, his trunk at his side. He didn't _really_ want to make another trip up and down the train corridor to find someplace empty, and this "metastasis" thing sounded promising. It was if Ginevra had come to know him. So, closing the compartment door behind him, he slid his trunk beneath the seat and took a seat near the window opposite the girl, prepared to ignore her until she had anything useful to say.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Now that just _doesn't_ make any sense! How could close contact between two wands cause them to mutate? The magical properties within the wood only provide the channelling container for a wizard's magic!"

Luna regarded him serenely. "My mother tested the properties between five base groups of wood particles; the core material changes it and can change other wood particles."

Tom knew his hair was a mess from his having run his fingers through it repetitively in frustration. He'd never met anyone this difficult to speak with. "Yes, I understand that," he returned, teeth gritted. "However, one _needs_ a catalyst in order for a mutation to be possible. Core material doesn't typically mutate things as it goes along, otherwise we'd have too many unidentified species of tree."

"Oh, but there _are_ unidentified species. Take the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, for example. The Swedish wizards never bothered to identify it because it was such a common animal at the time, but now it has disappeared into obscurity. It's really very sad, you know?"

Tom stared at her in what could only be described as awe. She was mad, just positively _mad_. "What on earth is the Crumple-Horned Snorkack and what does it have to do with wand mutation?!" he cried, feeling just the edge of his wit.

She laughed. "Oh, nothing _really_. It's not a very pretty animal, but I'd like to see one all the same…"

Tom felt _he_ had then disappeared into obscurity once she began on that vein. Neville and Ginevra had long since stopped paying attention to the discussion. Neville was writing up something in a notebook and Ginevra was amusing herself folding little pieces of paper into cat-shaped animals.

It didn't matter anyway, he had much to think about regarding this last year and the summer included. The death omen Potter had mentioned in relation to this mass-murderer. There was particularly Black to think about. If Tom really was the spitting image of his father then there would be no doubt about Black recognising him as his master. He'd been wondering quite vaguely whether there could be any merit from this fact, or whether he should leave it alone. Yet, the man was coming to kill Harry, wasn't he? Tom still didn't know what he really thought about that besides the initial intrigue involved.

It was within the depths of this thought that Tom was nearly flung from his seat as the train jolted. There was a buzz as the lights flickered then burnt out completely, and they were soon completely cloaked in darkness.

"Tom?" He heard Ginevra begin uncertainly.

He stood, using the light from outside to see where Neville was. "Move your feet up, Neville, or I will step on them." Seeing the shape of Neville's legs move, he pushed past with the intention of getting to his wand in its box.

"Ouch! You stepped on my finger!"

"What are your hands doing on the floor?!"

"It's too dark. Luna, where are you?"

"Perhaps it's the Luminus goblin come to take the light we've stolen."

"What?"

Tom searching fingers brushed against the compartment door. "I know at least _some_ of you in here have brains; get your wands out!" Choosing to ignore Ginevra's grumbles, he reached under the seat for his wand arca. He felt around for it just as he felt a strange cold creep up from his lower back to the top of his head. A shudder ran through him as he grabbed his wand and whispered, "_Lumos_."

Light spread over three faces looking up at him. Neville unearthed his wand and more light filled the compartment.

"Have we broken down?" Neville queried quietly.

Ginevra's wand sparked up.

"There's something out there…" came Luna's dreamy voice after she had lit her wand.

Tom found he couldn't reply to any of these remarks. He felt light-headed, nauseated, and suddenly very weak. The cold in his back had spread to his limbs, and he was aware that the shudders had doubled. He looked around at the others, but they were all preoccupied with looking out the window at the ever-increasing dark shapes. He made an attempt to sit down on the edge of the seat, but for some reason, the seat seemed suddenly further away from its initial position. His hand slipped off the edge and his knee struck the ground even as he scrambled to right himself.

All three others looked down at him. The lights from their wands gathered in what seemed a bright circle over his head.

"Are you all right, Tom?" Neville demanded as he made his way over.

Tom expelled a quick breath as it seemed suddenly hard to either inhale or exhale. A white cloud formed about where his breath would have been. His wand dropped to the floor as his fingers became stiff and pained.

"It's very cold in here, isn't it?" Luna remarked distantly. "It's affecting Tom more than us."

"Tom?!" Ginevra jumped up.

_There's something outside the compartment; go and check what it is_! He wanted to shout, but his voice had left him to be replaced with a thick iciness. Then suddenly, what he wanted to say didn't matter for his mind was abruptly just as cold.

_Somewhere he heard the cry of a baby. A pair of green eyes were looking at him, green, green, bright green. He felt the intent, his own, but not quite. A horrible centre to his rising hatred. Kill this thing. And the infant screamed, screamed for its mother…green eyes; green eyes just so innocent and deadly at once. _You will die_. The green sprouted from him towards the pair of emerald, streaming with tears almost bright red with screams and pleas. The green was death…death coming at him. _No, no no! How?!

_Tom was dying. The end of him, the end of everything he'd wanted, known and learned. Next would be the black, the empty, immeasurable grey of nothing and Tom was nothing, never was, forgotten. To dust again as the house about him crumbled and the baby's screams rose around him, in his head. _

_Grey._

_Thick white fog swallowed him, and Tom knew nothing at all as he tried to silence the screams behind him._


	12. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: Indeed, it took longer than planned, this chapter. It's just that when you're your own beta reader, the trust system is minimal. That is to say that I can't always trust my objective judgement.**

**Disclaimer- If I owned JK Rowling's work, I'd own her odd sentence structure and frequent grammatical errors within her representation of dialogue. I wouldn't want those for any amount of money. This is, of course, coming from the mistress of odd sentence structure. Ah well…**

**-Time Or Manner-**

Chapter 11

_It was a strange swim, the inside of his mind. He felt an essence within his grasp. It was a sense of understanding, a certain knowledge set up beneath the wire of his central being. He had hold of it, but like something liquid, it fell between his fingers, splashing up against his feet._

_In such a vast ocean with water up to his waist, Tom felt he looked up at the sky and the clouds had come far too low. His fingers dragged ripples in the strangely still waters, trying to grasp—re-grasp his thought, but it was an effort with nothing attached to its tail as the clouds parted to let in the light._

He looked up at bright green, and for one wild moment, Tom thought he had returned to his nightmare, but the immediate sight of a pair of smudged spectacles abeyed that moment of horror.

"Are you all right?" Potter whispered.

Tom made the valiant effort to sit up, but his head immediately protested. As he flopped ungracefully back on the pillow, he was disgusted to find that he had bathed himself in cold sweat. "I'm fine," he snapped irritably.

"Are you sure? You look really awful."

He couldn't resist grimacing at the other boy. "And _your_ glasses are smudged! _Really_, Potter, how can you _look_ through those things?"

Potter removed the spectacles and rubbed them vigorously against the hem of his shirt. "Don't make it sound like it's intentional. I've got a whole bunch of other things to worry about aside from how my glasses look."

A noise caught their attention before Tom could make a reply fitting for such ridiculous logic. Madame Pomfrey had come bustling up the aisle of beds to where Tom lay.

"Mr. Potter!" she exclaimed. "The infirmary's purpose is to heal the unwell or to cater to those feeling poorly. You are neither of these, and you don't appear to be a healer, so off with you!"

"I _was_ feeling poorly," he returned innocently.

She frowned. "And not two hours before, we couldn't hear enough 'I'm fine!'s from you, could we?"

Upon receiving only silence from Potter's end, she moved her gaze toward Tom, who made another attempt to sit up.

"What happened to me?" he demanded as his arms gave out. He felt positively boneless and weak, and he kept shuddering now and then as the cold in the room seemed intrusive. Also, he felt that his voice was coming out rather hoarse.

"Dementors," Harry supplied readily. "Askaban guards, you know. Sent here to look for Sirius Black if he comes."

Tom blinked at the word "Dementor." How, throughout his extensive reading, could he have missed something that could cause him this degree of weakness? It was quite apparent that he was not working hard enough. The entire scope of it made him embarrassed just thinking of it, the manner by which he had chosen to cruise through his studies, simple as they had been so far.

"Yes, yes," Madame Pomfrey cut in. "You will be filled in on the details soon enough. For now, I'll need you to eat this." She proffered what appeared to be a dark brown stick on a plate. Tom regarded it suspiciously before he picked it up.

"This is _chocolate_," he informed her.

She nodded sternly. "Yes, and I'm giving it to you to eat."

"It's all right," said Harry. "Professor Lupin gave me one. It helps."

Tom bit into it, and was surprised to feel an immediate blaze of warmth shoot down his throat. As it blasted its way down, making his heart race, he was sure that it was flooding his very blood veins.

"Better?" Madame Pomfrey prodded, her expression business-like.

Tom, yet to leave the deep stillness of the sensation the chocolate had given him, nodded without a sound as he finished it off.

"Excellent. Now, I'll just have you wait right here. I've to call the Headmaster; he would like to speak with you."

Tom jumped from his lethargy, making to swing his legs off the infirmary bed. "I don't need to speak with _him_, thank you," he snapped, gesturing for Potter to move aside.

Madame Pomfrey made a grand sound of dissent as she pressed him back down. "If the Headmaster wishes to speak with you, then you'd better stay right where you are. And Potter, I know I don't need to tell you a third time. You are quite obviously well_; go to the Great Hall for dinner…now!"_

"And I'll be going with him. Tell Professor Dumbledore that I'm very tired…"

Harry, seemingly ignoring Madame Pomfrey, muttered, "Maybe you should speak to him-"

"No!" He hadn't meant for his tone to exude such vehemence, but it was all too true that the very last thing he needed now was an exchange between himself and the Headmaster. He struggled to sit up again, but was inhibited by Madame Pomfrey's firm grasp.

"_Tom.._." Harry began reproachfully.

"Potter, outside!"

"I _won't_ be bullied into anything this term!"

"That's not what this is about!"

"_Potter!"_

"_Would_ you release me!"

"No! You're to wait for Dumbledore as he instructed!"

"I'll do no such thing!"

"I don't think it's a good idea to make him wait, Madame Pomfrey…"

The old nurse, positively exasperated with the both of them at this point, gently, but firmly pressed Potter toward the door. What with her being preoccupied, Tom took up the opportunity to slide out of the bed and make for the door behind them. He had intention of side-stepping Madame Pomfrey, who had since taken to pushing strongly against the immoveable obstinacy that was Potter.

Before any of them could so much as brush either door handle, the door opened and Dumbledore strode in, only stopping short to behold the three of them mid-struggle. Tom froze, feeling the crumbs of resignation build a tiny wall before his resolve.

"It seems I've to add _admirable_ _timing_ to my list of humble talents," the old man remarked, his usual benignity several twinges stronger than usual as he surveyed Tom.

Madame Pomfrey straightened, huffing a little as she straightened her nurse's apron. "I'll leave these two to you, Headmaster. _Both_ of them seem in capital health, if you ask me."

"Thank you, Poppy," Dumbledore returned amiably as she shuffled into her office. "I'm sure neither of you will mind a short stroll alongside an elderly man?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was Tom who was the quietest as they moved down the corridor, the Headmaster hummed a little and Potter shuffled his feet as they went along, seemingly debating with himself on whether to speak or not, but catching the forbidding glances from Tom his way immediately shunned the idea.

"Now, Harry," Dumbledore finally began as they neared the Great Hall. "I trust you've had some nourishment?"

"Yes, sir. Madame Pomfrey gave me something." Tom glanced at Potter again as he answered. He saw the expression in the other boy's eyes still relayed an immense respect. In disgust, Tom looked away.

"That is relieving, as it seems you've missed the feast. However, I do not wish to deprive you of the delights of pre-scholarly exchange before lights out. I'm sure your friends have saved you a seat in the Common Room as we speak."

Harry looked at Tom, who felt the glance, but didn't look back. "Sir, what about Tom?"

"He'll be joining you in a while. Now, hurry along."

Potter didn't move, and Tom finally looked at him. The other boy was looking at him with that thunderous expression again. It was quite unsettling as he knew Dumbledore was watching with great interest.

"Harry," Dumbledore said lightly, but pressingly.

Tom gave a slight nod, hoping the other boy would take it as his cue to leave. For all he knew, Dumbledore would interpret the entire thing as Tom's effort to corrupt the Boy Who Lived. Harry returned the nod as if to indicate quite blatantly their silent conversation before he took his leave.

_Idiot_, Tom thought.

Dumbledore's office seemed so much more silent despite the whirring instruments and the occasional puff from a strange contraption in the corner

The headmaster took his seat behind the desk, and Tom chose to meet the gaze of the Headmaster with great steel. He had done nothing wrong, and this was only more harassment he could add to the list of Dumbledore's faults in trial.

"Now then," the professor said quietly. "I believe we have a talk that is quite overdue. Please…have a seat, Tom."

Refusing to take his eyes away, Tom sat slowly, ensuring that he leaned back. He was casual, calm, and he _would not be bested this year._

Even seated, the old man still managed to tower like a wizened statue, his intelligent blue eyes were off-putting in their lazurite glare. "To begin with, I wish to offer you my deepest of apologies. I can barely express in words my regret regarding the actions I've taken this past term. No doubt it has left you with a grand mistrust in the faculty of this school."

So _this_ would be the old man's strategy? Penitence? How audacious of him to make the assumption that by putting up such a weak mask of goodness and purity that Tom might look petulant in his lack of response. He raised his chin. "It is not _the faculty_ I distrust, but _you¸ _rather. First, you have made assumptions about me without pausing at all to question your righteous resolve. _Then_, you've proceeded to keep from me an essential truth, which could have saved me a _great_ deal of trouble."

The headmaster's eyebrows had drawn low, his stature composed, however, and his hands folded in his lap. "And it is in _this_ particularly that I wish to beg for your forgiveness. If we could but move forward from these impractical mistakes on my part, then perhaps further trouble could be avoided."

Tom was just about to open his mouth to put forth his best cutting reply, when he realised that this had all come too suddenly. In fact, so suddenly that he hadn't had the time to really think. _Yes, of course Dumbledore would employ strategy like this; it is all part of this game. _And even as he processed this, it occurred to him that despite the fact that this was, indeed, the old man's game, it was still one in which Tom could emerge the winner. It was only important for him to remain dispassionate as the headmaster had a particular talent in the department of vexing him. And when Tom was in such a state, he had a great deal of trouble concentrating.

"I understand, sir. Had the situation been reversed, I'd have taken the same course of action."

Dumbledore looked at Tom for an uncomfortable length of time, his hard expression became all the more probing and Tom felt his lie might be read. As ridiculous as it seemed, his suspicions had often saved him. He quickly scanned his mind for distracting things; trivial things at best. He thought of magic, first and foremost, thought of the little spells he'd taught Neville, and the larger ones he'd mastered with time. He thought of Ginevra's using the Visveres Jinx. Finally, he thought of Potter and the Luminus Caecus. The last thought had not been intentional at all, but like the rest of the thoughts in his head, it bloomed up on the front of his mind.

Finally, it seemed, Dumbledore smiled warmly after allowing the pause to grow a bit too tense. "I see. I'm grateful that the two of us might see eye to eye from now on."

Tom merely offered a nod as he was still a bit unsure as to whether or not the old Headmaster had read his thoughts.

"Having said that, there is something else I would like us to address this evening before you take your leave."

Tom sat up a little straighter, not completely at ease, but with the knowledge that he'd somehow passed some type of test.

"A week ago, perhaps, I happened upon, and quite by accident, a news article in the Daily Prophet detailing the good motives of a particularly important man toward a young man attending this very school."

Tom knew immediately what he was getting at, but he refused to say a thing in response as his hands clenched closely together.

"It _is_ strange, is it not? My attention was so strongly riveted to this article because I _believed _it to be true. I know I need not say anymore than that for the sake of listening ears." The headmaster cast a quick glance toward the ceiling whereas Tom naturally followed suit, and was quite jolted to see several pairs of eyes fixed shamelessly upon him from the inside of a number of portraits. "Headmasters of the past," Dumbledore supplied carefully, his own gaze fixed stolidly on Tom. "Not to divert from the current topic of discussion, but this news article I happened upon, Tom; do tell me if I might accept it as fact."

Tom allowed a moment to pass. Despite his qualms about meeting with the old wizard in the first place, he felt quite prepared for these questions. From the moment, he'd agreed with Lucius on the matter, he had begun planning his answers, reactions, and mannerisms. "Were it fact, sir, might I consider problems arising from it?" Tom returned, looking somewhere above the top of Dumbledore's head.

"I shall be frank with you, Tom. If it really is _family_ you're searching for, I'd advise you to wait. You've turned thirteen this year, and it really is far too early to allow things to occur so rashly."

"Rashly, Professor?" Tom queried albeit innocently. "I am quite alone in this world; it will never make sense to me for someone to attempt to exist without some feeling of belonging." He was lying, of course. The Headmaster seemed a man of great sympathy for the human trait of feeling. After all, wasn't it in the nature of battle to make use of the opponent's weakness? He had supreme intention of doing just that in the end.

As expected, the old man's eyebrows drew together with concern. "I see. I apologise once again, Tom; I wasn't quite aware that you felt that way. However, I want to strongly advise against your choice of companionship; I-"

Dumbledore was cut off as a loud grating noise rumbled from the direction of the steps downstairs. Tom recognised it as the sound of the guarding statue moving aside to make way for a visitor. The old man blinked expectantly at the office door, and Tom could not help turning as an abrupt knock resounded.

"Yes?" Dumbledore responded lightly.

There was barely a pause before the door delivered one quite determinedly dignified Lucius Malfoy. Though it had been a mere week since he last saw the man, Tom felt a deliberate and all encompassing sense of relief as Malfoy stepped into the room, resting the head of his cane on his arm as he removed his gloves. "Headmaster?" Lucius greeted, injecting as much satire as he could develop in his tone.

"Ah, Lucius," the Headmaster returned, only then seeming to have expected the other man's entrance. He waved his wand so that another chair clattered forward. Lucius ignored it, and moved to stand beside Tom.

"It seems only weeks ago you were here inquiring on Hogwarts business. I would imagine I'm not wrong in assuming your renewed interest is strangely particular nowadays?"

Malfoy's lip curled slightly. "I don't think I need to remind you that I have a great deal of influence with the Wizarding Education board," he replied swiftly.

Dumbledore only regarded him as if a much adored alumnus had only just complimented him. "Indeed not. I was kindly reminded of that fact not two months before this when the board proceeded to have me suspended."

"Quite," was Malfoy's stiff reply before he laid a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Though I do regret having to say so, I didn't come here for that matter, which shouldn't leave your mind as of yet—I am here about Tom. No doubt the matter of his guardianship has come to your knowledge?"

"It has."

"And this late hour meeting is to discuss your concerns, I imagine?"

"How very well you consider the atmosphere, Lucius. You are a true diplomat, after all." Dumbledore returned, rising from his seat at last. He came around from his desk, his hands folded behind him neatly. "I do not go out of my way with false modesty if I make it clear that one would do well to pay ear to my concerns. It is, indeed, about your interest in Tom."

Before Dumbledore could utter anything further, however, Lucius unearthed a sizeable sheaf of parchment and laid it flat, rolled out across Dumbledore's desk. "Concerns, though I may have been the one to broach the subject, must be laid aside in favour of a much more recent development."

Stepping forward, the old man looked down through his half-moon spectacles at the documents before him. Tom, too, straightened in his chair to regard the numerous pages littered in fine print.

"Adoption papers, Headmaster," Lucius supplied coldly. "By Wizarding Law, blind to Muggle jurisdiction within the meaning of the Muggleborn Act, chapter 27, Statutes of the Ministry for Magic, I, Lucius Malfoy, will take on the requisites of guardianship."

"The legal process is complete?" Dumbledore queried, unable to keep his tone as light as before.

The smile on Lucius Malfoy's face was a new one. Tom chose that moment to rise from his chair, picking up the first parchment to read it carefully. Malfoy had come through for him, indeed, but there would be many technicalities he had to ensure were settled before he completely gave his approval to this new contract.

"Legal processes that you helped to construct are complete enough that I can freely tell you, Headmaster, that the treatment of any of my wards is exceptionally important to me. I will have none of last year's nonsense occurring again. I will not hold back the power of the Ministry's mistrust in your ability to carry on your work."

Dumbledore appeared to consider this for some time. "I understand. I will say this, however. The extent of your power regarding this new guardianship is, like most positions of authority, limited. Tom remains a student of this school, and I shall not hesitate to exercise discipline and instruction when needed. This is whether or not he becomes Tom…_Malfoy._"

"That's not how it is,

Both older wizards gazed down at Tom, who had finally spoken.

He still kept his eyes fixed on the documents in his hands as if still perusing them while in truth he was quite finished. "Use of the Wizarding Law shall not change who I am. I am still Tom, and strictly Tom alone. Mr. Malfoy and I never spoke about any name changes." He chose then to meet the Headmaster's steady gaze. "Whatever my surname was once, and whatever it will be, will still be mine only." He finished on a defiant note, rolling the parchment and handing it quickly to Lucius. "My former orphan status only left me abridged, sir. Mr. Malfoy was only helping me rectify that."

For some strange reason, this caused a change in the Headmaster's strained polite countenance. He smiled with some disconcerting satisfaction, and nodded slowly. "I understand. Of course, this is to be expected. You will remain Tom in the school record, and nothing more just now."

"Thank you," Tom returned tightly. "May I go now, sir?"

"Yes, Tom. I apologise for having kept you so late."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"How ridiculously exhausting!" Tom couldn't help saying as he walked a bit ahead of Lucius. The Gryffindor tower was still two corridors away.

"The old man will always be known for conversing one to thorough exhaustion. The Dark Lord was known to complain of this often."

"Was he?" Tom returned with little interest. "Did you rescue him then as well?"

Lucius thin-lipped smile returned. "I never had the honour. One might attribute such an action to my father before me."

Tom stopped his steps towards the Gryffindor tower, abruptly turning to face the older man. "You've helped me a lot in the little expanse of a year. I want to tell you that I don't intend to forget this fact."

Satisfying as it was to see the dignified person of Lucius Malfoy bow his head in surprising homage, Tom spoke again quickly. "However, this arrangement of your being my guardian will be short-lived. It is a matter of convenience, and I am not your son, and you shall not be my father. I accept that I am younger, and have many handicaps in place due to status, but I am progressing and becoming a similar design to power. I'm warning you now not to underestimate me, nor the power of my father's blood."

"Never," was Lucius' heavy reply as he regarded Tom again with a look he was certain was saved for the Dark Lord. If anything, the expression on the older man's face heartened Tom. He was, for lack of any other expression, quite glad he'd met Malfoy.

With what he intended as a nod of finality, he turned to continue his walk, but he was quickly interrupted by Lucius speaking again.

"Be that as it may, Tom. You have a new status by Wizarding Law, and I, regardless of the public, intend to make it visible."

This gave Tom a moment's pause as he considered the prospects. "That is your jurisdiction."

Lucius made the small bowing gesture once more before he turned to return to the Entrance Hall, leaving Tom to stand thoughtfully in the now torch-lit corridor.

He imagined Bonny would be receiving a very surprising letter in a matter of days.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As he stepped through the portrait entrance, he had only enough time to register Ginevra bounding towards him from the armchairs. Her pause as she reached him gave him ample opportunity to shoot her a forbidding glance before she could develop any delusions of familiarity.

"We were worried," she said plainly, covering her own reaction to his expression.

His gaze moved past her to one now approaching Potter with Neville not far behind. "Why are you all up? I didn't ask anyone to wait for me," he cast out imperiously.

Neville looked blank, but Potter folded his arms. "I…_we_'d wait even if you didn't ask. What happened?"

"Potter said you were all right, but you still didn't come," Neville muttered, not looking up.

Ignoring all three of them, Tom moved to one of the armchairs. As he settled into the cushion and shut his eyes, he felt a light headache of exhaustion pierce the sides of his head, and for some reason the Common Room seemed a little bit cold. Perhaps he would go to bed before anything else.

"What did Dumbledore say?" Harry pressed, unmindful of Tom's present state.

"What? Is he still after Tom about that Slytherin's Heir thing?" Neville demanded suddenly.

This had the potential of being an exceptionally messy conversation. Judging by that tone, Neville was already in a state of outrage. And as much as she could go on about loyalty and sides, Ginevra was a flippant girl. Potter, last of all, was already trouble enough when it came to confidences. Why must he deal with all three at once? Still, it would be appropriate. He had since instilled himself with the calm knowledge that he would be a leader, and a leader did not take his followers into separate rooms and whisper to them quietly. No, they delivered unquestionable words to groups, crowds, and audiences. He would have to begin at some point. Besides, all this worry on his part, gave him the predisposition of being rather cowardly, which caused a degree of irritation at the back of his mind.

Resignedly, Tom opened his eyes, but sat back to find Potter practically leaning over him.

"Well? Is he?"

"What?" Tom snapped, sitting forward, but pushing Harry back with his arm.

"Is Dumbledore still after you because of last year?" the other boy queried nonetheless.

Tom took a breath. It had somehow become quite cold. Even his jumper did him little good at this point. Fighting his reluctance, however, Tom glowered at the three of them standing before him. With some irritation, he noted Ginevra wasn't looking at him at all, but at her hero, who didn't take his eyes off Tom. "I have come to the conclusion that Dumbledore will always be after me about something."

"Right…but what was it this time?"

"If you would just sit down and listen, I might just get a word in edgewise in order to tell you. The truth is, I've had agreed to a change in guardianship, and that doesn't make the old man happy in the least."

"Your guardianship?" Potter demanded, seemingly unable to keep quiet.

"That's the person signed by law to take care of me, Potter," Tom explained with some exasperation.

"Yes, I know what it means," was Harry's reply, mimicking Tom's tone. "What _I _mean is why would you change your guardian? You had plenty of freedom at…where you're at now."

Tom sighed. "Freedom, but not status. I regret to admit, Potter, that you'd find it quite hard to understand this as you have had the exact opposite."

This made Potter quiet for at least two minutes.

"Who is it?" Neville finally asked.

Tom didn't want to make it seem like he would dither over such a subject. "Lucius Malfoy," he returned plainly.

The silence in the room became like a dense fog settling over their heads. Tom waited for the uproar, especially from Potter's end.

"MALFOY?!"

As expected.

Neville seemed to have adopted an expression very akin to surprise with a hint of something else. Tom could almost see each calculating thought pass through Neville's head. As he had been trained, he was looking at the situation circumstantially, weighing the advantages objectively. After a steady slow moment, Neville's eyes drifted back to Tom's before he offered a faint nod.

Tom couldn't help being somewhat pleased.

Ginevra merely blinked owlishly at the proceedings. He could tell she wasn't sure how to react favourably.

Tom finally glanced at Potter, If seething could ever have been invented a second time, it would be in that moment where Tom gazed at Harry. The other boy's fists were clenched and at the ready. Ginevra jumped about a meter in the air as the flame in the fireplace leapt up suddenly.

"Well?" Tom prodded, ensuring he sounded completely indifferent.

"_What do you really think you're doing_?"

It was only as both Ginevra and Neville looked in surprise at Potter that Tom realised the other boy's last sentence had come out in an angry, hissing assemblage of Parseltongue. Another silence drifted into their midst before Harry, his eyes still set on Tom, spoke. "You lot go on ahead to bed, I'd like to speak to Tom _alone_."

Neville watched for a signal from Tom, who nodded quickly. Ginevra, however-- before even a millisecond could pass after Potter's order—was practically halfway up the stairs to the girl's dormitory.

Tom watched the edge of Neville's robe retreat up the steps until he heard the sound of a door closing above.

Finally, Harry, folding his arms in an otherwise righteous manner, snapped. "You realise that _Malfoy's_ the one behind last year's attacks, don't you? Because of him Ginny nearly died, and I was nearly killed."

"No. My _father's_ the man behind the attacks. Lucius was a mere instrument for his plan, as was I, and as were you."

Harry shook his head, his skin growing paler as he got angrier. "I don't believe for a _minute_ that Malfoy didn't know what he was doing when he put that diary in Ginny's textbook!"

"Don't shout, idiot; it's past one am. And you're only angry because some part of your societal impulse says you should be."

For a blind second, Tom was certain Potter was walking over to punch him, but the other boy only reached out and grabbed his upper arm in a determinedly controlled manner. "Why does it always end like this with you? You do something you can't completely justify yourself, and then you tell me my brain is the only part of me that's angry. What do you think human beings are?"

It was a moment for thought, but he hadn't the strength to think on it just then. His view on human nature was something he'd reiterated to himself time and time again, but the rising illness inside of him kept his mind abuzz with thoughts of merely lying down, of resting. Even Potter's flickering fire in the grate didn't warm the room for him. He shook Potter's hand away. "I'd be wasting my time trying to put that answer into proper words meant for you. My main priority is that I am meant to achieve something. I cannot get by on fame because I have none. Lucius Malfoy is my ticket away from the Muggle restriction that stands behind me. Were I you, I'd do the very same."

"I don't want you to turn out like Malfoy…or your fa-Voldemort. That's why I'm worried."

As always, such comments from Potter annoyed him. "I will say this once. Don't ever make me have to repeat it. I am myself, regardless of whom I associate with."

"I'm not saying you're easily influenced. What I'm saying is that whatever you're doing by being adopted by Malfoy can't turn out well considering the type of man he is."

"I don't need to hear that from _you_. We've agreed to be honest with one another, and I have been. Your part is only to accept my decisions on principle whether or not they would make your _headmaster_ happy."

"This has _nothing_ do with Dumbledore!"

"Of course not. It's not as if your entire set of values isn't based on his word!"

"They aren't!"

"Don't lie. You may have wavered for a while, but in the end, if he doesn't approve of you, then you're worthless!"

Potter looked away and let out a rough breath, as if to expel an injury. Tom could hear his own exhaustion echoed in that deep, helpless sound. An abrupt discomfort seized him by his middle. It was one of the first moments he could remember wanting to retract his words.

He couldn't quite pinpoint why this argument was completely necessary, but a huge part of him desired this discussion. _He_ knew he was doing the right thing, but for Potter to fail to understand like this only served to make Tom miserable. He wasn't sure what bothered him more. The fact that Harry stood inches away without any sense of understanding or the very fact that Tom allowed the other boy's ignorance to bother him so much.

"I don't know what you think of me," Harry muttered, still looking in the general direction of the armchairs. "I'm beginning to think that you keep me around just to feel better about yourself. I'm _not_ the failure version of you, though."

Tom had to shut his eyes then. It was ridiculous, Potter's expression then. "Never in all of our conversations did I ever exhibit this thought. After all, if that was the case, then I might never have bothered with you. Right now, I wouldn't have bothered to speak to you about this issue at all. I want you to see that this time is essential for me, _and_ for you. I want to make a difference in my life, and I am going about ways to do it. I know you want to put an end to Voldemort, but you sit there waiting for him to come along and kill you. If you had any modicum of ambition, then now's the time to prove it."

"Yeah?" Harry said softly. "And what do you want me to do? Go running after him? Maybe I ought to go chasing after Black right now."

"Not in the state you're in now, idiot. Think a little, would you. Unlike those others asleep in their beds tonight, we're aware of the balance. Life and death are meaningless unless you colour them with your achievements. You have the opportunity now to get ready, to _be_ ready when he comes. It's…frustrating how you pretend to exist like you're ordinary."

When Tom finally did look at Potter again, the other boy was frowning with serious thought. "Ok…fine, I understand. But if you would just tell me why Malfoy; out of every influential Wizarding name, why was it him?"

Now was the time for him to drop his honesty. The last fifteen minutes of conversation had been inexplicably painful. As his words had flown from his mouth, he'd found it alarmingly difficult to discard their filter. Then, as the thought of Voldemort was in question, and Tom's nearing and secret intentions to meet the man, it was important to keep Harry in the dark. Tom smiled quickly, trying to inject the idea of a conciliatory friendliness into his next reply. "Because Malfoy's the only one who would look twice at me, of course."

Harry considered him for a moment. The brightness in his green eyes was a signal of the coming reconciliation, but there was still a remaining glint of worry. Tom interpreted this as a slight mistrust, which he tucked away in his mind to think on later. Finally, Potter expelled a soft breath-like laugh and smiled back. "Don't make me say be careful, OK? I hate sounding like Hermione."

"Don't worry," Tom returned, finding it suddenly difficult to hold his smile in place. "Whatever passes, you'll still be…the same…"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In selecting his classes for the current term, Tom had exercised very little hesitation. It was a matter of understanding the curriculum before he signed up. He'd advised Neville on the same line. Then, he narrowed them down to things he could easily study on his own time to things that required some type of tutelage. Out of the extra subjects, he'd discarded such things as Divination, Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and Muggle Studies. For his current term, he could look forward to a full course load of Arithmancy, Potions, Astronomy, Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Herbology. Neville, on the other hand, had insisted that he would take Care of Magical Creatures and another smaller class called Asclepical Studies, which sounded unpleasantly outdated to Tom.

"Asclepius was one of the earliest Healers, you see." Neville explained with a disturbing degree of mirth as he flipped through his textbook. "He invented the spell to locate nerves. To be more exact, he discovered the nerve."

Tom was vastly uninterested. Having woken feeling still poorly, he was relieved when he spotted a pitcher of chocolate milk at the other end of the table. Getting up, he felt rather grateful that he was an early riser as it allowed him to take monopoly over aforementioned pitcher for breakfast.

"Moo-orning!" Ginevra sang as she plopped down beside Neville.

Tom found the effect of the chocolate more immediate when he gulped more down at once. It was a trial, but he downed his entire glass.

"Wow," Ginevra remarked, blinking at him. "And I thought Ron was the only non-animal who inhaled anything edible."

Tom decided to ignore her as he checked for any symptoms of nausea. He didn't feel as light-headed or cold, so he surmised his own health due to the chocolate. It occurred to him that he would perhaps need a constant supply if he had any intention of surviving the Dementors.

A boy Tom identified as Creevey moved for the pitcher. Without thinking, Tom whisked it out of reach, as to his own dismay he'd already begun feeling another wave of ice-like sickness creeping up on him. Creevey only blinked at him before turning away to look for an alternative. Tom was aware people had come to tip-toe around him; it was to his liking, but this didn't alleviate his current horrid state. He gazed a little irritably at any other possible challengers, but only found Ginevra looking up at him with an impertinently raised-eyebrow expression.

"I'll probably have you take Divination next semester, Ginevra," he shot a bit snappishly at her whilst refilling his glass.

Her startled look right then warmed him. "What? Why?"

It had been a while since he'd employed the use of her vow to him; he thought it'd be about time. "Neither Neville nor I am at all interested, but judging by the excessive number of your siblings and according to myth, your _hair colour_, you might have a talent for it."

"I remember reading about that somewhere," Neville added, smiling slightly.

"Yes, then she might not be such a destitute witch after all."

He could see the deep regret crossing her small features. She said nothing, though, as she frowned at both of them interchangeably. She'd done well to learn to bite her tongue when her hot-headed nature wanted take over. Tom felt better now he'd made her day a bit less cheery.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tom's first class, Arithmancy, left him rather unsettled. Professor Vector immediately had them memorising the numerals applied to the alphabet and within the hour they were already calculating their character number, heart number, and social number. Tom did not interact with anyone else as his own three-letter name provided a mere second's calculation. He came up with a three, a six, and another six. With some trepidation, Tom flipped through the long entries for each number in his textbook until he could find the interpretation for his character number.

_**Three represents the idea of **__**completeness**__** or **__**wholeness**__**. Its nature embraces the threesomes of **__**past-present-future**__** and **__**mind-body-spirit**__**. Three is an indication of deep talent, vibrant energy, an artistic nature, humour, and social ease. Threes are often lucky, and highly successful, but they can also be unfocused, easily offended, and superficial.**_

_That can't be right, _was Tom's immediate thought. Though at times he had found himself quite unable to perfectly honest with others, he'd always known his own nature, his own wants. He redid the calculation quickly. It took another minute thereabout for his unsettled mind to drive toward the explanation awaiting him. But Tom chose not to think too much on his supposed original name, whatever it would have been _had_ his childhood allowed the luxury. Even the reading for his heart and social life implied loving loyalty and other such useless condolences applied to those without merit. He came to the unfortunate conclusion that he would have to make do in calculating things _not_ having to do with himself. Dates, objects, and the people around him would have to do.

Transfiguration, however, pushed all these thoughts from his mind temporarily as he took his seat in the classroom next to Neville. As the remaining students from their other respective classes filed in, Tom sensed a strange atmosphere about the room as Potter walked in. Everyone glanced at the boy-hero carefully as if gauging something on his face. Tom wondered with some resignation whether Harry had had another Parseltongue incident.

As it was the first day, he needed to pay some attention, at the very least, to the course objectives before he would consider what Potter intended to get up to this term. It was on that day they learned about Animagi, a subject which Tom had perused with some vague interest, but found the process to be too charging for his scheduled achievements within his school term. Besides which, he had found little current use for the ability besides the possibility of being given social liberty.

McGonagall demonstrated her own ability while the class looked on with little interest. This seemed to affront her somewhat as she broke out immediately after turning back, "Really, what has got into you all today? Not that it matters, but that's the first time my transformation's not got applause from a class."

Much to Tom's chagrin, almost every head turned to look at Harry, who proceeded to frown back at them. Last year had certainly given him some level of gall to challenge public opinion, whatever it was this time. Hermione was all too quick to alleviate Tom's curiosity, however.

"Please, Professor, we've just had our first Divination class, and we were reading tea leaves, and-"

"Ah, _naturally,_" the older woman sniffed, allowing her gaze to drag across the room. "So which one you has been tagged for death _this_ year."

Everyone looked with some level of awe at McGonagall. Tom turned to look at Potter, whose frown had slipped in favour of a guarded look. "Me," Harry said. Despite the immeasurable calm clouding the other boy's features from under the table he saw Potter's fists curl. Tom's own insides froze for a miniscule moment. Teachers were tagging students for death? And how on earth was it possible that the seemingly inoperable tea leaf reading could come up with something of believable accuracy.

McGonagall proceeded with reassurance and some mild derision. The summary of her following claim was that the professor currently teaching Divination was one who wallowed in melodrama, and had a habit of declaring death omens whenever she could manage. This appeared to reassure Potter's end of the classroom, and should have very well reassured Tom in a way, but there was a pin of irrationality digging into his mind as he tried to dismiss the issue. He'd read enough about Divination to know to write it off as much as possible, but when death had come into the picture, Tom found the universe didn't sit well with him.

He intended to corner Potter after class regarding details. If there was any merit to the Divination subject, he'd need to pay a visit to this Trelawney woman.

His intention was sadly averted as the very moment he stepped out from the classroom, a certain brat of the pale and ill-looking variety stepped into his line of vision. "Excuse me, I've another class," he offered Draco politely. As hostile as he felt, his tension level of late seemed to waver too often since school began.

"W-wait," Malfoy broke out, eyeing Neville—whose attention riveted quite disarmingly on Draco the moment he spoke—with caution. "I need to find out…my father didn't tell me…_is this true?_"

There was a moment before Tom realised Draco was holding a clipping from the Daily Prophet, which featured a rather large photo of Lucius signing something in the presence of the minister. The headline read, **Patent Price of Political Popularity is Paternity **subtitled **Malfoy Heir no longer certain. **Tom took the clipping from the other boy's now trembling hands. As he had been fully aware of the details regarding his adoptive case, he had felt little need to read the Prophet.

"This is actually the second issue on the story. I never saw the first," Draco pressed, albeit lightly as he glanced around for possible listeners. "It's not true, is it?"

Tom was displeased. "I'd have expected your father to have explained everything already. It's bothersome for me to have to make the issue clear to you." He handed the page to Neville.

Draco's usually malice-glittering eyes had paled as he stared helplessly at Tom. "H-how…" he began breathlessly. "Why would you…?" He broke off into a gasping tangent as he fiddled with the tiny pendant at his throat. Tom noticed that Neville was surprisingly impassive as opposed to that moral breakdown two years ago. It occurred to Tom that he might have to query about the boy's progress with his supposed search for atonement, if it could still be called that in the end.

"I don't want to talk about this now. I will contact your father soon, and have him explain it all to you or better yet, _you_ owl him. I don't have the patience for any filial outrage you have baking inside of you."

Draco remained stricken, mouthing without sound as Tom signalled for them to depart.

"I knew I'd have trouble over this, but I wasn't expecting to get it from _him_," he had to remark as they moved for the Great Hall.

Neville didn't reply; rather he was looking at Tom in a peculiar manner.

Still at his recently common low tension, Tom didn't snap. He could only sigh irritably. "What is it?" he demanded, surprising himself with how breathless he sounded.

"You don't look…well," Neville observed. His bright, but narrow gaze fixed with a surprisingly practiced eye on him.

Tom touched the right side of his head where he felt particularly warm and felt the beginnings of a cold sweat. He definitely needed something less short-lived than the chocolate milk from that morning. "It's those Dementors. I…admit that I haven't been… myself since the train ride."

Neville made a sound which could only have been termed as a thinking hum.

"The very least you could do is put all that research to good use and find something to rid me of this illness. I don't see anyone else suffering as much."

"Erm…right, of course. I'll find something…but…it's more like I'm interested in why they affect you more. Don't get angry, but I read that Dementors suck all the happiness out of you. You're not unhappy, are you, Tom?"

Tom waved such vocalised musings aside as he walked a bit quicker toward the Great Hall. "I'd be happier if I could move through a day this term without having to consume a castle's worth of chocolate."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tom was pleased to find that he had a free period after lunch, so after forcibly swallowing about three helpings of chocolate trifle, he decided he'd visit the owlery. He may have told Draco to owl his father about the issue, but he still felt his own personal desire to make it known that he would not tolerate any grief on the matter.

He was delayed about a half hour as the very moment he'd stepped outside Tom found he wouldn't do well in the autumn cold. He was obliged to go looking for his winter coat in the dormitory before retrying the venture.

When he'd finally reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the wooden door to the owlery, he was much surprised to find Draco Malfoy there. The other boy looked up from his huddle of cloak in the corner, assailing Tom's vision with a tear-streaked visage. The boy appeared to have been in the middle of reading a short letter.

"Do you not have Care of Magical Creatures?"Tom queried, rather unkindly.

Surprisingly, the room echoed with only the sound of scattered owl noises and the wind blowing in from the owl entrance, and the absence of Malfoy's reply. Tom found being ignored to be one of his most favoured of pet peeves. Walking swiftly toward the Malfoy boy, he snatched up the letter. Draco blanched and stared up at Tom with a hateful look. "You do like taking things away, don't you?" the boy spat with vehemence.

He'd had the intention of looking the letter over, but Malfoy's words had taken him by surprise. At the foster home, he'd become accustomed to the unspoken hatred born from fear expressed with such looks. But that had been exactly it: _unspoken_. Here the perhaps dull-witted Malfoy heir was now ready to spill out tearful diatribes as best he could, and for what purpose? An upper-hand? Pride? Juvenile passion? Due to the sheer originality of it, Tom was intrigued apart from angry. Surely someone willing to jump past his own fear for the sake of pride could be useful.

Tom bent down to Draco's eye level, folding the letter neatly before pocketing it. "Well done, Draco; so _clever_ of you to realise," he said, using his best warm smile—thereby causing Malfoy to shrink back in surprise. "I _do _like to take things away. And as your new brother, I wanted to tell you that I'll be taking several things away from you. As days pass, and as long as we are _family-" _He said the word with nothing short of utter distaste. "-I intend to leave you completely bereft."

Even Ginevra hadn't been able to make such a perfect expression of horror.

Tom rose, his smile much more genuine then. "Of course, I like to give as well. I've always been the giving sort; it's something I can't really help. I could make everything absolutely perfect for you, but that depends upon yourself."

"Wh-what?"

"Correct. '_What'_ is the word you're looking for. I give you a week to think and consider _what_ it is that you'll do for me before I make a change in your life."

Malfoy let out a choked breath, one that appeared to have been held for a while. The boy was practically greying in the face as he adopted that helpless look he'd exhibited in the corridor before.

Tom observed, thinking. _Must be strange_, he thought. _He spends his entire childhood summoning the power of his father to protect him, and now…what can he do when it's his father's power he has to face?_ Tom was genuinely curious to find out. Judging from the little brat's personality, he'd probably make the decision within the day.

He wasn't wrong about the decision, but it was Malfoy's next reply that made Tom reconsider his own perceptions.

"A-all right. I don't know what you mean by changing my life…but if you mean, like…power like yours, then I'll do it. You really make people do what you want, and I want to do that too. I'll do whatever it takes to get power like that, but my father…I _don't_ want to lose my parents; that's something I don't _want_ to give you. No matter what."

Tom paused. He decided his next answer would need to be careful. Draco had all but handed him his weakness with an explicit, "don't hurt me" next to it. The boy must have learned this type of bargaining from his father. A deliberate show of weakness would always be tempting to an enemy, but that was the key to a trap. However, bargains like these were hard to come by. To this day, he wasn't even all that certain of Neville's number one desire or number one weakness. When Tom had found him, he'd been _all_ weakness, and now Neville had acquired a definitive strength, Tom found he was unsure about the other boy's aims, dreams, and fears. Speaking to Draco had rallied the thought to the front of his mind, and it became apparent to him how essential this all could become. Lucius' advice to him about collecting people burned stronger.

"I understand," Tom said. "It doesn't have to be your parents, yet if you aren't careful, I may find them much more useful than anything you could offer."

"I will! I'll think of something!"

Tom only nodded. His attention was drawn now to the letter he'd pocketed a moment before. Ignoring Draco's murmured protest, he unfolded the thin and delicate parchment. Scrawled across in long, effeminate cursive, he read:

_Draco_**,**

_You shouldn't worry so easily. I'll love you no matter what happens. You must always remember that your father is an important man, and that he makes his decisions in the very best interest of the Malfoy name. He trusts you and I to believe in him. Yes, he and I have had words about it, but I'm convinced that he would never dismiss you for anyone. As a first step, try to get to know this young man. Your father says he's very pleasant, and more than eager to be accepted into the family. Anyway, your father is planning a visit, so you'll be able to discuss the issue properly. Remember that we love you immensely, and that I'll be sending you your favourite type of sweet in a few days…_

The message moved into more proclamations of adoration and such. Tom, having found the tone of the letter completely inexplicable, let the parchment drop in front of Malfoy. It had left him a little unsettled, and also rather disturbed. Was this the atmosphere he would find when he entered the Malfoy manor? It seemed more stifling than Bonny's foster home. Had he perhaps jumped too quickly at the opportunity to be associated with a respectable Wizarding name? The very idea that a cold, calculating, and diplomatic man had married such a…

"What's your mother _really_ like?" Tom demanded abruptly.

Draco scuffled to his feat, straightening his robes in a rather off imitation at dignity. "Why?"

Tom barely needed to change his expression before Malfoy ducked his head in a quick sign of repentance.

"I mean…she's…a good mother. I don't know…she's nice. She doesn't get angry at me as much…" Malfoy pursed his lips in a decidedly embarrassed expression. "You'd have to meet her…y-you'd like her." He finished softly, looking in any direction but Tom's.

As much as he took the time to think on it, Tom could not, for all he was worth, figure out this kind of behaviour.


End file.
